Master of Tides
by EnlightenedSkye
Summary: A 17th century AU with hints of murder, romance, intrigue, and adventure on the high seas. [Rated T for action and violence; triggers in author's notes. Gemily, Jilliam, and MTB. Full length work. Complete]
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is either the best or worst idea I've ever had. I'm taking a course in maritime history this semester-don't ask, I needed electives towards my degree-and learned of the role that privately hired British ships worked in terrorizing the Spanish in the colonial Caribbean. It was a desperate grab for territory and treasure, for as long as ships were robbed at sea and not near any significant area of land, it was not considered an aggressive act of war. In 1670, the Treaty of Madrid was signed, conceding much of the islands of the West Indies to England and basically forcing both countries to stop meddling in the affairs of the other. Piracy, organized or not, was severely limited, and trading was limited between their own possessions. As you can imagine, this caused a great deal of unrest for the men that made their living off of the bounties of the sea. King Charles II had returned from exile in 1658 following the English Civil War and was immediately consumed in war with the Dutch. The American and Caribbean colonies were finally beginning to prosper with the introduction of tobacco, indigo, and sugar, so he sent many a nobleman overseas to keep order. This is where our story picks up.

Please know that I have researched what you see here and in the following chapters to the best of my ability, but if you spot a glaring historical error, feel free to point it out so that I will not repeat it. I hope you will excuse the lack of accents and mid-English anachronisms, for historical fiction is hard enough to write without worrying about the linguistics of the characters. Chapters will be between two and three thousand words, and will be a few days between as finals are coming up at my university. This story will contain the holy trinity-that is, Jilliam, Gemily, and MTB. Be warned of military violence and death that will occur in future chapters. I'm known for my fluff around here, but please don't spare my feelings. It is my first full length story for this fandom, after all.

I don't own this show or the characters, only the situations I put them in. The title is nicked from a Lindsey Stirling song that I am quite partial to.

Next time: William meets the notorious cook, and the _Arcadia_ comes upon some old friends.

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter One**

Precisely fifteen months to the day that they'd departed from the banks of the River Thames, a young sailor arrived in the country he had formerly called his home. He was no older than eighteen, with a rakish glint in his eye and a close crop of dark hair. This was unusual of a man of his station, for he was sooner to sport canvas breeches and bare feet than a silken cravat, upturned cuffs, and a starched waistcoat. In fact, seeing as he had sported the ridiculous get up since he'd boarded the clipper in San Juan, he felt like he'd sooner faint from all the tight bindings than pass for a respectable gentleman.

A carriage was waiting for him at the docks, which was quite the surprise for a boy from the midland territories who had never ridden such a contraption. As the horses were whipped and the cabin lurched to one side, he seized the handles on the door and held on for dear life.

The royal acolyte chuckled at his guest's naivety and the abject fear he saw in his eyes. From the man's stilted attempts to mimic a Londoner's accent and the ripe smell that was rising off his body, it was apparent that His Majesty's newest informant hadn't earned his position as of yet.

As their ride continued down the cobbled streets of the north end, the escort informed him that he was to have an audience with the patron of the man he'd been charged to bring to the new world. He was a very important person, a man of the people, who didn't suffer foolishness lightly, _did he understand_?

So he was to have an audience with the King himself. How _proud_ his late mother would be to see her son now!

Eventually the driver slowed his rig to a halt and the sailor found himself before the tremendous heights of Whitehall Palace. The central tower boasted a facade of white limestone and steps the length of the largest ship in all of the Royal Navy. Surrounding buildings were placed haphazardly around it as if some playful giant had seized them by their sapphire roofs and tossed them about like a handful of dice. A crystal clear canal cut the compound by its width, chaperoned on either side by mighty oak trees. Each window and silver fixture had been polished to a nearly impossible shine, while the ladies and gentlemen ducking between the structures upon paved walkways were so flawless in their appearances that the boy could have mistaken them for porcelain dolls. It was simultaneously the most gaudy and most impressive thing that he had ever seen.

To his surprise, both himself and his companion were searched multiple times before they were allowed to enter. Apparently there were multiple throne rooms to thwart the murderous overtures of any remaining followers of Cromwell.

"Even a decade after the traitor's death, his doctrine still attracts fanatics," one of the guards had explained when faced with his shocked expression.

He may have disagreed with the King's policy of fanatic taxation on occasion, but not enough to consider killing the man. As opposed to the rest of his former crew, he'd opted for a more forgiving and less militant approach to his ideological enemies.

Perhaps this was why he'd been chosen out of all the men to return. His former boss had resumed his plundering ways, and many had followed without a second thought. He doubted that he'd be trusted to maintain his charge's position after his report was delivered in person, and that was perfectly alright. Neither guard nor servant paid heed to the velvet purse brimming with gold coins that was tucked into his breast pocket.

At long last, the traveler reached the climax in his nearly six month journey: a heavy set of cypress doors taller than half a dozen men. The two sentinels standing to either side of it leaned forward and with the sum of their strength revealed the throne room.

It should not have surprised the sailor to discover that his king was a real man and not some creature of myth that was only spoken for with wild prognostications among the townspeople. Charles presently sat in repose on his opulent throne, whose inlaid gemstones glinted with light streaming in from the monolithic stained glass windows. The sleeves of his white shirt and the gut of his red overcoat were so voluminous that the boy couldn't wager to say just how significant he was in girth or stature. He wore little finery, save for a golden chain that culminated in a painted cameo of the blessed virgin. A scourge of white ruffles drew most of the attention to his face, which was heavy with the wrinkles and jowls characteristic of any man in his forties. Naturally, his wig was enormously high and piled with curls that would be the pride of any of the Queen's ladies in waiting. As the sailor and his escort drew nearer, they began to attract the attention of several advisers seated to either side of the throne.

One of the men stood and recited his limited credentials from a parchment, his disinterested tone of voice indicating that they had entertained many appointments that morning already and one had yet to bring before them some information of merit. The boy kneeled at the steps of the raised dais, unsure of how to proceed. Was he to kiss the monarch's hand? Dance a jig?

"Your Majesty, I am Henry Higgins of Shropshire and Shrewsbury," he began cautiously, for he had no royal title of which to speak. Perhaps the fact that his county had valiantly served the King during his exile would be of some merit. "I served aboard the royal vessel _Arcadia_ for three years under the command of Captain Thomas Brackenreid, of Yorkshire and Sheffield. I, along with my companions, escorted Sir William Murdoch of the Isle of Wight to Barbados before proceeding up the coast to the Spanish garrison of St. Augustine as requested by royal decree. Along our way we intercepted crucial intelligence that the treaty had secured the ownership of the West Indies for the crown. It is due to the wit and diligence of Sir Murdoch that I am present today to inform Your Royal Highness that the isle known to the Spaniards as Puerto Rico is rife for the taking."

Not bad for a speech he'd only been rehearsing for the past three quarters of a year. He was keenly aware that the King's advisers were rearing to go with questions for him as to how this could be. The boy settled for turning on his heels and stalking out of the throne room, grateful for the finery he'd been loaned and the pleasant passage across the sea. It was more than a person of his stature could have asked for.

Besides, to a man that had the power to take his life, a lie by omission wasn't an entire falsehood.

-0-

William had been aboard for four and a half months, and he had yet to make any friends.

He had arrived at the docks in his home port of Yarmouth at precisely the arranged time to find an empty mooring. At the time, his cargo included two chests of clothing and half a dozen full of scientific texts. Although his housekeeper had advised him to leave some of his personal affects behind, he simply couldn't bear to think that he would arrive at his post without enough stock to furnish a full library.

He was a man of letters; a stout patronage from a local benefactor had seen him through an education at Cambridge. For the past five years, he had pioneered the formation of a primitive constabulary force on the island which had attracted the attention of the crown for its efficacy. His methods centered around the profiling of the characteristics that caused criminals to commit their vices-whether it be desperation, poverty, or godlessness-and targeting these at their source. Although he was not from the island originally, he was respected among its people, and consequently by the royal family. The arrangement he had with the townsfolk was comfortable, so much so that initially he couldn't have imagined abandoning all he'd worked for to bring a state of order to an lawless plantation isle thousands of miles away. But seeing as his livelihood depended on his ability to follow orders from the higher up, Murdoch had come to peace with it.

After an hour of standing in the rain, during which most of his cargo had become thoroughly soaked, he nearly wept with joy to see the _Arcadia_ approach. From stern to prow, it measured one hundred feet, with sails of various sizes too numerous to count. As it approached, William could see that its hull had been mended so frequently that the side of it could be mistaken for a patchwork of every kind of wood in the forest. The sculpted figure of a nude woman adorned the bow, her topless form disappearing below the waterline repeatedly with the ebb of the waves. It didn't matter that she was most likely a depiction of some Greek protector goddess, the sight made William blush a deep crimson that didn't begin to fade until the transport at last docked with the pier.

If they knew of their latest charge or even cared, the men on deck didn't show it. They were a ragtag bunch, all ripped trousers and unkempt facial hair, who kept their heads bowed to their work until something demanded their attention. Suddenly the lot of them stood up straight and saluted towards the aft portion of the ship.

In the meantime, two sailors had jumped from the side of the ship down to the pier. Both were young men of slight stature, with long hair that was tied back with strips of leather and feet unapologetically bare. The seaman standing closest to the water elbowed his companion, his lips splitting in a broad smile. Then the other bowed mockingly, his head snapping forward as if he'd been knocked over.

"Welcome to the _Arcadia_ , Mr. Murdoch. I'm Jib, and this is my bunkmate Runt."

His heavenly father was surely testing his patience now. Ignoring the sting of the informal address, he said, "It's a pleasure, gentlemen. Now, I would like to know your _real_ names."

Momentarily, they were confused, until the same one responded, "I'm Henry Higgins. I man the forward sails."

The other sailor was fairly bouncing on his toes with excitement. It was clear that he'd earned his nickname through his inexperience. "George, George Crabtree. And this lady, the keeper of the seas, is Eurybia," he proclaimed, leaning over to attempt to reach the carving on the prow.

Two things happened simultaneously. The young man lost his balance and tumbled forth into the water, taking an exquisitely carved chest of Murdoch's keepsakes down as well. It was for a fleeting moment that William hoped his belongings would float and retrieval would be easy, but he had no such luck. The crate and its contents quickly sank to the bottom of the bay, just out of reach of the repentant boy.

"I do apologize, Mr. Murdoch," he professed over the sound of his friend's raucous laughter, "It was an honest mistake."

He accepted the hand that was held out to him, using it to clamber back onto the pier. Once righted, the sailor who called himself George shook off the excess water not unlike a dog. William stumbled backwards to avoid being caught in the cross hairs.

Meanwhile, Henry was busy lifting his luggage and tossing it to an unseen colleague above. William was about to warn him to be careful, for his books were exceedingly expensive and he'd already lost enough of his possessions for one day, but just as the chest was about to fall towards the earth, a pair of hands would shoot out and catch it with extraordinary accuracy.

A rope ladder was suddenly thrown over the side, followed by the cautious steps of a man who was swathed in too much finery to have been a normal sailor. His velvet cloak and canvas boots were more extravagant than anything William could ever hope to own. Unlike his crew, he appeared well kept. If it were not for the deep rifts of scars that covered one side of his face and the eye patch, he might have been mistaken for a man of lower nobility. He didn't walk as much as stalk; his confidence and pride seemed to emanate from every direction. So intimidating was his presence that William was considering bowing to him. This train of thought was interrupted by the offering of a handshake.

"Captain Thomas Brackenreid, but if you pick anything up from my men, you'll refer to me as Brax. I suppose you are the man we're to take to Barbados." As he spoke, the two cabin boys scampered away, using footholds on the exterior of the hull to pull themselves aloft.

William was shocked by their catlike dexterity. Thankfully, himself and the captain chose a more dignified method of ascension, taking the rope ladder one at a time. His pointed shoes caused some hindrance, but eventually he managed to pull himself topside with some shreds of dignity remaining.

The deck of the _Arcadia_ was bustling with men preparing for their impending overseas voyage. Every action was practiced and smooth in its execution; just as one man dismounted the topsail, another would scurry right on up. William thought, although he initially suppressed it, that they could rival the efficiency of the Royal Navy.

"Welcome aboard, Sir Murdoch," the Captain was saying, although his back was turned to him. He seemed to be surveying his territory, and deriving a great amount of pleasure from doing so. "Now that initial pleasantries are aside, I must inform you that I intend to keep order at whatever cost. You will sleep and eat alongside my men, for I do not condone special treatment of guests. Our initial route was to come 'round near the horn of Barbuda, up the coast of the mainland Spanish territory, and then back to England. Your presence adds three hundred miles to our journey. This hindrance will not be forgiven, no matter what orders we receive from the King. Keep this in mind if you choose to cause trouble," he finished coarsely, moving off without so much as a farewell.

William remained standing in the same square of deck for quite some time. _Had he just been reprimanded for forces beyond his control?_

The boy known as George eventually took pity on him, taking a respite from his duties to escort him below decks. "You'll be bunking with Giles, the cook," he explained, ducking in and out of cramped spaces deeper into the bowels of the ship. "He provides meals twice a day, and ale in the evenings. There's a mandatory reading from the good book every Sunday night in the galley. I'll advise you not to be late."

When he was quite sure that the sailor wouldn't be able to hear him, William muttered something about being impressed by honor among pirates. Ahead of him, his guide froze, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.

"You won't find a pirate here, sir," George replied acerbically, "We're privateers. Every single one of us."

And then he turned a corner, leaving William quite lost in the labyrinthine maze that was the belly of the _Arcadia_.

 _(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I would like to extend my gratitude to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and followed so far. Here you will find a hint of action and exposition before all is revealed. I hope you will indulge my Spanish, for I took five years of it in secondary school but as of today am a little rusty. To put it in perspective, everything I write in that language is translated from German to English mentally, and then from English to Spanish manually. Whew.

I hope I can live up to your expectations and more. Be aware that there is a time skip here of four and a half months from the first chapter to the battle. And fear not; William will earn the respect of his shipmates (and will learn to respect them) sooner rather than later. And as for the ending of this chapter...it may seem ludicrous right now, but hang in there.

Next time: A conclusion to this primary battle, and meeting of opposing forces.

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter Two**

After less than a week of sleeping in the fetal position and doing his privy business into a bucket, William had decided that life at sea just wasn't for him.

The crew didn't do much to make him feel welcome. The first few days he had been plagued by vertigo and a sickness to the stomach that could only be remedied by going topside. From the beginning, he could tell that his presence wasn't appreciated there. One of the sailors, a stout Welshman called Jackson, made this apparent when he kicked over the bucket he'd been using to swab the deck onto his fine leather shoes. It was all he could do to take the laughter in stride and keep to himself, studying the remainder of his collection that hadn't been ruined by rainwater back in Yarmouth. He was discouraged from using a candle-rather, it had been snatched out of his hand and trampled underfoot-because of the risk of fire. So in the evening he could sit in the galley and watch the sailors carouse gaily amongst themselves and little else.

His bunkmate, a shriveled older gentleman named Percival Giles, proved to be quite the conversationalist. Once he had caught William eyeing his companions like one would animals in a cage, he opened up, pointing out the unique characters and conveying the stories of how they came to join the crew in extraordinary detail.

"There's only ever been one man to go crazy under Brackenreid's watch, and that's Jimmy Gillies," he said one morning as they sat peeling the last of the ship's stock of apples.

Murdoch sat casually, with his feet propped up on an adjacent bench and his overcoat across his lap. It had little to do with comfort than the fact that it was exceedingly hot below deck. The only light came from self contained lanterns that swayed with the motion of the waves.

He hummed to himself, tossing another spent core into the empty barrel. "How did that come to pass?"

The old man shrugged. "We thought it might be the loneliness, or perhaps a deficiency of the diet. But some men are just born mad. He's the reason that the Captain wears an eyepatch," he explained, holding his peeler like a shiv and making a jagged cut through the air.

Over the course of the journey, William had discovered that many of the sailors wore eyepatches, but few because of physical injury. Most of them switched the eye over which they wore it whenever they went below decks, so they would have one eye continuously accustomed to the darkness. But the Captain-or _Brax_ , as he preferred to be called-consistently touted the patch over his right eye. He'd be lying if he'd said he hadn't given any thought to it.

"I suppose you'd know all about madness as a copper, Murdoch," he mused. "How is it that you came to earn your title?"

Immediately he ceased his work, setting the half-naked apple on the counter beside him. The two men felt free to discuss their shipmates, but never their own pasts. William knew very little about the cook other than his name, and that was because he hadn't offered that information.

He wanted to say, _for extraordinary service to home and country, just like everyone else._ But, then again, he was safe in the company of fellow loyalists to the crown, was he not?

"I attended university in Cambridge. Back in 1643, Oliver Cromwell seized control of the town, including a handful of buildings in the complex. With several of my colleagues, we sold out his location and allowed for the king's forces to approach," William answered.

Giles seemed to consider this, his mouth notably downturned into a sneer. Finally, the corners of it lifted, and he relayed a knowing smile. "You aren't originally from the Isle of Wight, are you?"

So, after years of practicing diction to rid himself of the telltale accent, he had been found out. "No, Giles. Aberdeen, Scotland, born and raised."

His companion only nodded and returned to the preparation of the midday meal. In some respects, it was a relief to have a secret he'd kept since his youth out in the open. Under the rule of Cromwell, the treatment of Catholics living in his native Scotland and in neighboring Ireland turned from tolerant to genocidal. William had practiced his religion in secret, and considered his retaliation against the reformers based on a personal grudge to be one of the most sinful actions of his lifetime. He'd fled as far away from the unpleasant memories as possible, eventually winning back the favor of the people of the Isle of Wight on behalf of King Charles. _And why shouldn't he have done so, for the man who had indulged his family the right to live?_

The cook had picked up on his guest's foul mood and brought his hand onto the wood of the cabinet, shaking William out of his reverie. "Nevermind yourself, sir. Let me tell you something about young George Crabtree, who's been giving you trouble since you arrived. That boy was raised by-"

"All hands on deck!" Came the rallying cry, accompanied by the clanging of a bell.

The sound grew closer, but Giles was wasting no time. Out from the spice cabinet came a pair of muskets, one of which he handed off. "That includes us, Murdoch," he said, and dashed off to attend to his station.

William was suddenly filled with a course of nervous energy that he couldn't fight. He nearly collided with the bell ringer on his way to the deck, joining the throng of half-dressed sailors shaken from their bunks.

Just as he reached topside, the ship came about, nearly knocking him off his feet. He could see now the Captain standing at the bow, peering into the distance with his spyglass. On the horizon lay one of the largest ships he'd ever seen.

"The Spanish! Turn, man, turn!" Brax was shouting excitedly, and the hand at the wheel complied, nearly throwing a man or two off the rigging in the process.

Suddenly realizing that he was not alone in his megalomaniacal quest for treasure, he moved to address the crew. "Nothing by bravery, gentlemen, as always. We should be able to resolve this in a volley or two!"

 _Now that was ambitious._ The sailor known as Worsley appeared at his elbow, hoisting his rifle and crying, "For the _Arcadia_ , and for England!"

How dare they call themselves English before committing such unprovoked atrocities and crimes of war? William had heard tales of what transpired by the hands of these so called privateers, and he didn't like it. Not one bit, but it seemed like he would have no choice but to participate.

There was the distant sound of the firing of a cannon into open water, which he took to be a warning of sorts. Indeed, everyone seemed tense, and no one spoke a word as the ship raced towards its opponent. William could see the red and yellow flags of the Spanish vessel now, their crew very much in the same anticipatory position.

Just when it seemed that the two ships were about to collide, the _Arcadia_ banked sharply starboard and came to broadsides. There was no introduction, no exchange of formal greeting. " _Fire_!" The Captain bellowed, drawing out the syllable into one endless exclamation of malice.

This time he really did lose his balance as the deck shook to life underneath him. No less than twenty round shots came barreling out of their bores at the speed of sound. Such firepower would have blasted a hole through a man, but seemed to bounce off the hull as if they were acorns.

"¡ _Dispara_!" Came the corresponding command seconds later. From his vantage point huddled in the forecastle, Murdoch could see dark haired sailors moving around below decks as they fought to keep up with the speed of their orders.

Most of the charges disappeared below the waterline to target the fragile keel of the ship, but one veered way off target and blew cleanly through the top of the mainmast. This, in turn, startled the barrelman who was stationed in the crow's nest. His weapon fired with a pop that reverberated into the air.

From the deck of the Spanish ship, a crew member cried out and fell among his companions, causing a ripple effect of pistols, sabers, and even maces to be drawn.

The Captain's facial expression morphed from triumphant to harried in a matter of seconds. "Come to, north!" He bellowed, although the wheel was so close he could have done so himself. The _Arcadia_ initiated another back breaking ninety degree turn, much to the surprise of the men at the cannons, one of whose discharges managed to clip the end of the Spaniards' bow.

Now at a tee with their opponent, the sailors began to grow even more daring. Even Giles, the old curmudgeon, stood on the tip of the gunwale to fire his musket into the air. And thus the rather unconventional meeting of European powers devolved into the sporadic discharge of cannons and a flurry of bullets. Try as he might, Murdoch could hear nothing but the steady thrum of grapeshots and the hollering of men.

He sat backwards on his heels and peered above the rim of the barrel he was pressed against, only to have a projectile fly past his head. Suddenly, his position didn't seem like the most safe of locations to hide from a firefight.

For all of his years of education and moderate success in high society, Sir William Murdoch was reduced to crawling on his hands and knees towards the man that seemed the most in control of the situation. Captain Brackenreid stood stock still as objects that were meant to take his life whizzed around him, one booted foot in an angle of the wheel as he peered into the distance with his one good eye.

Just barely over the horizon, on seas blue enough to shame all of the jewels in the orient, another ship was approaching. It moved at breathtaking speed in their direction; the first thing to come into viewing range was an elegant prow carving of Athena, goddess of strategy and war, with an owl perched on her shoulder.

"Bloody hell," Brax cursed, "It's the _Temperance_!"

The young deckhand, George, happened to be passing loaded down with additional rounds for the men who were in firing range. He repeated the schooner's name, his expression one of surprise... _and something else_.

At that moment, a bullet coursed through the tip of officer's hat, knocking it cleanly off his head. He ignored this mild inconvenience, turning to his men and bellowing to all those within earshot: "Look alive, men! Captain Ogden plans to challenge our claim!" And then he moved off, laughing a little too heartily for a man in his situation.

In all the time he'd spent reading up on privateering companies authorized by the port authority, William had never heard of one helmed by a _Captain Ogden._ There occurred a natural lull in the firefight; he seized the opportunity to rise to his haunches to gain a better view of this mysterious commanding officer.

Straddled over the bowsprit, nearly mimicking flawlessly the pose of the figurehead, sat a woman of considerable beauty. Her fair curls fanned out from her face as she steeled the wind, and she wore a stained ruffled blouse undone to the breastbone. Never mind the fact that she also wore men's trousers, most notable were the handsome twin flintlock pistols secured about her waist with a leather band.

It was then William noticed that every single solitary person on the deck of the _Temperance_ was of the feminine persuasion.

So absorbed was he in this latest discovery that he neglected to look up when the two parties began to board each other's ships in a desperate attempt to gain the upper hand. One of the Spaniards had sought him out instantly, as he appeared to be the only man not otherwise engaged. William soon found himself with two hands wrapped around his neck.

Adrenaline coursing through his veins, the lawman delivered a elbow to his assailant's ribs, causing him to disengage. He whirled around and soon found the same man on top of him, clawing and ripping at his clothes like a feral animal.

Delivering punch after punch to his chest and nose, Murdoch was dismayed to find that the Spaniard had yet to tire. Suddenly, out of the corner of his vision, he spotted his discarded weapon lying on the _Arcadia_ 's deck…

Before he could make a daring reach for the gun, the antagonist produced a dagger from his waistband and held it aloft. A few half-hearted attempts at prayer passed through William's mind, all but forgotten in the heat of the moment.

A sharp crack rung out into the air, a little too close for comfort. The aggressor fell to one side, revealing the hunched form of Henry Higgins.

Although he held a tight grip on his pistol, it was hard to miss the way his lips were shaking and his face was ashen with shock. He suspected that no matter of tales told around the table in the galley could prepare a young man for the terrors of life at sea, but that was another matter entirely.

William was about to stand and make a mad dash for his cabin when a hand clenched onto his arm with the painful intensity. The Spaniard was struggling to lift himself onto his elbows, gasping for air as he repeated over and over again, " _Tómalo_ , _tómalo_."

After racking his brain for the meaning of this command, he hissed, "Take what?"

Blood was now flowing freely from a wound in his upper back, and from his mouth. With a final, shuddering breath, the man touched his breast pocket and rasped, " _Encuéntrala_."

Reaching into the fold of his uniform, William pulled out a square of parchment, whose contents were folded outward in a flagrant disregard for its preservation.

An **X** had been drawn onto a map with a steady hand and outlined several times after the fact. Underneath it in immaculate script lay the following message: " _Aquí yace mi amor y la verdad en perpetuidad._ "

He'd made it to the stairs that would take him below decks before he managed to sort out the meaning in his head. From that moment, William knew that he would go on to curse the day that he ever took orders from a dying sailor.

Silently, he repeated to himself: here lies my love and the truth for all eternity.

 _(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: The wheels of the exposition bus go round and round! Thanks for the well wishes. If you find a few characters OOC, you're not the only one. Let's call it artistic license, yes? :)

Next time: Julia and William talk, and the crews come to an agreement on what should be done about the map.

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter Three**

George Crabtree, stationed in the rigging of the foremast, was one of the few sailors to witness their boarder's descent into the ship's underbelly. However, seeing as he was surrounded on all sides by Spaniards aiming to take his life, he paid it little mind.

For the hundredth time in the course of the mission, he found himself wishing he had held the foresight to purchase a musket at the last port. All he had in his possession was a rather large and unwieldy broadsword, which had been the only item of considerable value remaining in his late father's estate once his aunts had picked it over. From the stories he'd been told around the fire late at night, George knew that it was the very same he'd carried into battle on cavalry during the Irish Confederate Wars. It still bore his inscription, a series of jagged lines meant to represent Gaelic letters, and a primitive etching of their family crest. That weapon had been his prized possession since joining the crew of the _Arcadia_ , and he had been wary of its use since then.

That being said, he was wondering if he might have to resort to violence very soon. He certainly wasn't as brave as his captain, who could decapitate a foe without batting a lash. George was, in fact, but a teenager; perhaps he should be glad of that. It was easier to hide behind false confidence.

An enemy sailor was presently ascending the netting, his dagger clasped between his gnashed teeth and expression savage. George's heart leapt to his throat immediately. Evading the threat surely wouldn't lower the risk of his death, but he was willing to try.

Releasing his hold on the ropes, he dropped to the deck from a considerable distance. He was now standing at the bow of the ship, shouting distance from the _Temperance_. As Crabtree watched, the dark skinned woman at the helm urged the vessel further still, until several of her crewmates found the gap suitable to be traversed by flying leap.

The first to make the jump wore her dusky hair in a short plait partially obscured by a wide brimmed hat. Her skirt was scandalously short for his liking, only covering the knee by a partial inch, while her blouse sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. In her eyes lay scant emotion but determination. George was surprised to note that there were no less than eight daggers of varying lengths secured in scabbards to her belt; while he watched, she removed one and took aim.

Before he even had time to duck out of the way, the projectile sliced past his ear and lodged in the chest of a Spaniard that had been approaching him from behind. He fell to the ground with a wheeze, and as he lay on the deck desperately gasping for air, the girl strode to his side and removed her knife with a single yank.

After wiping it haphazardly on her skirt, which George could see was already stained with blood of previous victims, she handed the weapon off lengthwise. He accepted it, somewhat warily, and caught a glimpse of her carved initials on the hilt. _EG_.

"Emily Grace." She had to shout to be heard over the din.

Fancy _that_ for an introduction! As the woman slid up to him, pressing her back to his to monitor the enemy, he answered quietly, "George Crabtree."

"It's a pleasure," she replied dryly. "Now don't just stand there; we're fighting together now!"

-0-

After ten minutes had elapsed without so much as a gunshot being fired or the cry of a falling man, William decided that it was once again safe to venture topside.

He'd just spent an indeterminable amount of time pouring over his latest acquisition, anything to not agonize over the inexcusable bloodshed occurring above his head. If the obtainment and possession of money and wealth was to define his generation, he wasn't sure he was willing to take part in it.

He digressed. Once he'd placed the parchment on an empty table in the safety of the galley and unfolded it to capacity, William discovered that he had indeed been looking at a map. Finely crafted, a curated selection of green and blue dyes had been used to simulate the transition of land into sea. Landmarks and estates had been designated with a delicate hand, their borders intersecting each other with dashed lines. The one which held the **X** was labeled _Hacienda de la Vega_ , and the field surrounding it was simply called _los sembrados_.

A narrow body of water anchored the parcel on two sides; Rio Grande de Lioza went on to cut through the next major town. So numerous were the sugar plantations that Murdoch could scarcely tell where one ended and the other began. But his eyes were once again drawn to the inscription in the fields by the ocean, and he tried to convince himself that all there would be was treasure. Not the remains of a loved one of the deceased Spaniard who would never see justice to their case without his intervention. _Nope, only treasure…_

Biting his lip to keep a curse from coming forth, William stood and moved towards the stairs. That train of thought had been morally repugnant, and he _knew_ it. Something had to be done with this scant information, and he would be the one to enact it.

The first thing he witnessed once his vision adapted to the brilliant sun was the Captain, face contorted with stark bewilderment. He stood flanked by the two cabin boys facing in the direction of the _Temperance_ , which was treading along beside them in a leisurely continuation of their journey. Stepping over the gap now was a woman, dressed a touch more conservatively than her peers, who appeared to be in the twilight of her thirties. Her eyebrows knit together in concentration as she approached her unwitting prey, and as soon as she reached it, embraced him with open arms.

Brackenreid stumbled backward and pushed her off, but not before his guest had kissed him passionately on the lips. Much to his surprise, however, her expression when they separated was not of contentment, but irritation.

"Fancy seeing you here, Thomas. I thought I'd heard the last of you," she said, cockney accent prominent.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. For the first time, the Captain willingly welcomed Murdoch into the fold, if only it would draw the attention away from his embarrassing encounter with the female sailor. "Gentlemen, may I introduce Margaret Barlow, the finest sharpshooter in all of Yorkshire and Barnsley-"

"That would be of all the seven seas, now. You'd know that if you hadn't neglected to write," she chastised, and William knew that she must be relishing the crimson color that was rising to the officer's cheeks.

"It's a pleasure, madam," Henry, ever the diplomat, extended his hand for a stiff handshake. "I didn't know that Brax had it within him to have a past with such a character. Your reputation precedes you."

"How kind," the woman responded, eyes never leaving those of her former lover. "Remind me to put on a little show of target practice after our negotiations."

" _Negotiations_? There will be no such thing," Brackenreid scoffed, cutting a traitorous glance towards the young man at his side. "We arrived to the bounty first." He jabbed a thumb in the direction of the now deserted Spanish patrol tethered to their gunwale.

"But would you have kept it without our assistance?" The call came from the deck of the _Temperance_ ; as the keeper of that sentiment effortlessly swung over the gap with the help of a hanging rope, William was treated to the sight of the same tantalizing woman he'd been distracted by earlier. By her side was another dark-haired woman, slight in stature but not in presence.

George gulped and immediately looked away. He dearly hoped that she wouldn't let on that she'd saved his life but an hour before; the shame of it would ruin their chances of a good take.

The fair lady didn't wait for Brax's rebuttal; instead, she said, "We want thirty percent of what you find in their holds."

"I'll be damned if that will come to pass. You're out of your jurisdiction, Captain Ogden," he fired back, grounding out her title like some would spit an obscenity.

She stuck out her lower lip and tilted her head to one side, as if she was entertaining the petulance of a child. "We'll convene in my galley at once. If it'll make you feel better, Tommy, I'll let you keep one of my own for security."

The much older man bristled at her overtly familiar tone. He glances between Margaret and the other woman, and not wishing to spare a thought on old wounds of the heart, makes his decision.

"Crabtree, take our guest down to the brig," he ordered. "You'll have your bargain, Miss Ogden."

For one endless moment, George feels frozen in place. And then his charge turns her gaze to him, and her large, beseeching brown eyes set him to action. "Yes, sir," he mumbles, and offers his arm to the lady.

-0-

As he gingerly stepped between the bobbing bows of the two ships, Murdoch mused that he must be quite the sight mediating the arbitration of two formidable powers in piracy. Many of the Arcadians had bowed out of the excursion; the way they spoke about these women, he would have thought they were sirens, luring them out to the depths. They were capable. They were _infamous_.

From the short conversation he'd conducted with Higgins and the Captain, he gathered that the _Temperance_ was but the only female lead privateering venture in the Caribbean. Made up of former ladies of ill repute, farmer's wives, and victims of unspeakable tragedies, they were highly organized and, apparently, patrolled the rim of the sea's basin looking for trouble. As ethnically diverse as they were, this made them a free agent. They attacked and sold to whomever they pleased. And because they held loyalty to no one, the _Temperance_ was a significant threat to British privateering vessels in this region.

He was surprised that he'd been singled out to oversee the proceedings; even after all they'd forced him to endure, shunning him from social gatherings and barely sparing him a second thought for nearly five months, it was comforting to know that the crew still respected his authority. And while he disagreed with their methods, particularly their habit of stealing and sundry other treacheries, he had to admit that he admired their strength and devotion to a cause.

Then again, that might not be the case once the meeting had concluded. Brackenreid's mood only soured as they descended into the hold; while William was marvelling at the cleanliness of the galley and the fine tapestries hung at every angle, he crossed his arms and assumed a foul expression for the ages. Even when the aged cook, a Mrs. Kitchen, offered him a shooter of straight whiskey, he refused it. Higgins accepted the glass, but picking up on his superior's disapproval, kept it on the table before him.

Soon they were joined by the lady Captain and Miss Barlow, who each indulged. "To old friends and new enemies," Julia said, and made a toast to no one in particular.

William couldn't keep his mouth shut. The irony was too rich. "A significant name, the _Temperance_ ," he noted from his place at the end of the table, eyeglasses perched at the end of his nose.

For the first time, she turned her gaze to him. There was laughter in her glacial green eyes, even if her mouth remained in a firm line. "The ship came with it," she replied, and downed the contents of her glass.

From his pack he removed a bit of parchment and an ink well, as well as a finely tipped crow's feather. It was only after he'd written the date and his own name that he noticed that she was standing a little too close for comfort.

Supposing that she was anticipating an introduction, he acknowledged her curiosity: "Sir William Murdoch, of the Isle of Wight. I'm the chief of constabulary in Yarmouth, madam." And then he did something wholly out of character; bending at the waist, he kissed the knuckles of her outstretched hand.

To her credit, she didn't try to snatch it back as if it was on fire. When he drew himself up to full height, all he could detect in her countenance was flattery.

"A lawman, Brax? Is morality so scant among your men that you need someone to police them?" She jested, finally taking her seat.

The captain appeared incredibly tense, and when none other than Margaret Barlow sat down beside him, he nearly went through the roof. "Not that it's any of your business, but we're escorting him to Barbados along our route."

Julia clicked her tongue and treated them to a rare smile. An unfamiliar bubbly sensation seized William's gut.

"They _are_ in need of a policeman there, someone to keep their ships in line. I daresay they are very easy to pick off while weighted down with their bounties of indigo and sugar," she asserted, her smile morphing into a wry grin.

He sighed, for he hadn't taken into account the added burden of pirates into his workload of keeping the island on the straight and narrow. If there was anything he resented, it had to be circumstances that conspired against his pursuit of order.

"Too slow," Miss Barlow agreed, removing one of her pistols from her belt and setting to polish it.

"Back to business," the female captain said, clapping her hands together. "If you expect to leave this encounter with your holds unscathed, you'll be giving us one third of the Spaniard's goods."

"On what grounds?" Higgins couldn't hold his tongue any longer. He was clearly indignant to be taken to trial with a woman in control. "We could have held them off without you running to the rescue!"

She folded her arms and leaned backward; across the table, her companion mimicked her position. "Let's not be obstinate, gentlemen. It will only be to your detriment."

"It's not stubbornness, Captain Ogden. I've got men and an empire to please," Brackenreid exclaimed, bringing his fist down on the table.

Surprisingly, Julia didn't so much as flinch. In the direction of the arbitrator, she asked, "Don't you think they are being unreasonable, William?"

His pen paused over the surface of the scroll, where he'd been in the process of drafting a contract for the two parties to sign. "I wouldn't know," he answered quietly, secretly thinking that the situation would resolve itself if the assembled delegation wasn't so _greedy_.

"There will be no questions directed towards Sir Murdoch," Brackenreid huffed, "he's not here for you to manipulate towards your whims."

"On the contrary, I believe he is in possession of something that will benefit us both," she said, and to his shocked expression, continued, "One of my girls saw him take a map from a Spaniard as he lay dying on your deck. But he hasn't divulged that information to you, has he?"

-0-

Deep in the belly of the _Arcadia_ , adjacent to the forecastle, the brig was a makeshift prison made from a hollowed out bunk and a series of iron bars stretching from the floor to the deckhead. There were no portholes and no natural illumination, save for the lantern that George had brought down there. For the past ten minutes, he and the young lady had sat in utter silence, not even making eye contact.

Then, out of the blue, she said, "Did you know that I've killed _eight_ men?"

Although his heart fluttered in apprehension at this announcement, he did not show it. George leaned against the wall, suddenly very interested in the light dancing on the glass rim of the lantern. He did not respond to this provocation.

"One knife for every one. I had to leave Bristol behind because they were onto me. They made bulletins with my likeness, but no one could catch me," Miss Grace admitted with pride, fingers coming to wrap around the bars.

He'd heard tales of the dangerous characters aboard the _Temperance_ , and he knew that his voice would shake when he asked, but he had to know. "Why did you do it?"

Satisfied, she replied, "My lover been killed in a dispute over a gambling debt, and I had to restore her honor. The perpetrators had to die, the nine of them together."

 _Her_? Suddenly, Crabtree remembered hearing of a sapphist from a British county that had gotten into a brawl with several men and been jailed briefly because of it, but nothing of a murder. "Wait. Earlier, you said there were eight."

"Eight what?" She stammered, caught off guard in the course of her falsehood.

Newly confident, he elaborated, "I don't think you really did it. I _know_ what a madman looks like, and you aren't it."

A long suppressed memory flitted through his mind. He'd just discovered the captain at the helm, bleeding profusely from his eye and cheek. Before him stood his previous bunkmate, James Gillies, still brandishing a sullied dagger. His eyes were wild, and when he at last noticed George standing there, he'd looked straight through him as he sought out his next victim.

But this Emily Grace had not. She was too _together_ , too well spoken, to have ever taken a life unprovoked. There was no proof of the matter except intuition, but somehow he just knew.

"Perhaps I misjudged you, Mr. Crabtree," she acquiesced, "but I believe you are still in position of one of my knives."

That he was. Removing it from the scabbard that held his father's sword, he held it out to her hilt first.

She seized it and pulled him forward roughly, causing a line of blood to be drawn from his palm. Were it not for the bars between them, the two young people would have been standing chest to chest. "But would you really have judged me if I had killed all those men?" The question, largely rhetorical, was barely above a whisper.

When he shook his head in the affirmative, she chuckled, and George could feel her sweet breath on his face. If they both leaned forward a fraction of an inch, _maybe_ they could…

Something snapped between them. He was back at his post against the wall in an instant, a crimson blush spreading across his cheeks. Emily seemed unperturbed. Gingerly taking a seat on the bare bunk, she inquired, "How old are you, Mr. Crabtree?"

"I am but nineteen, Miss Grace. And you?"

"What a pointed question to ask a lady!" She countered, feigning offense. "But just between the two of us, I will be twenty next spring."

He was taken aback at this news, for she seemed so much more worldly and in control than he. It only proved just how fast one was expected to grow up out here. As he considered this, George removed a rag from his pocket and wound it around his hand to staunch the bleeding. He could barely feel the pain.

"So how is it that you came to join Captain Brackenreid's crew?" Emily cut in once it became apparent they'd exhausted that topic. "Julia has spoken very highly of this ship and its complement."

This surprised him, for the lady had been quite coarse in her short conversation with Brax earlier in the day. Perhaps it was because she considered them a threat to their menacing of the French. Being proud of his association with his fellow Arcadians, George couldn't say he blamed her.

"I had nowhere else to go," he said. Then, at her imploring gaze: "My mother passed away, and then my father, leaving me in the care of my aunts. And they certainly couldn't support a young boy with their lifestyle."

"Whyever not?" Miss Grace wondered, genuinely interested.

Taking a deep breath, he figured it might be just as well that he told her the truth. What were the odds he'd meet her for some time after this, after all?

"They were female entertainers," he explained, hoping that she picked up on the great deal of insinuation in his tone.

She laughed suddenly, a sharp, melodious sound. It definitely caught George off guard. "It's the world's oldest profession. You can't blame a woman for taking the easy way out of poverty. She could just as easily marry young. I considered this, myself."

"What stopped you?"

"I always knew that I belonged out on the waves. It's not something I could easily explain."

In his mind's eye, George is standing on an outcropping of rocks on a beach in his native County Cork. The sun has but a moment left before disappearing under the horizon. It's in that magical moment he can see at least a league out to sea, and he imagines he can see even further still, to the New World. As the wind howls around him, threatening to throw him off of his perch and into the surf, he throws back his head and laughs.

Back in the present day, he's smiling at the woman that only a few minutes ago he couldn't bear to speak to. "Yes, I can relate."

 _(to be continued)_


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: There were no new comments for the past chapter, so I can only assume that everyone is impartial to these latest plot developments. I originally considered having Margaret slap Thomas a la Captain Jack Sparrow, but thought their greeting more than sufficed as it was. (:

Next time: A colorful arrival in Puerto Rico, and dinner with an aristocrat.

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter Four**

"What's this about a map, Murdoch?" Brax asked, wasting no time. For the first time in the meeting, his eyes lit up with excitement and he sat forward. There was a bit of something else there, perhaps _suspicion_ , but he elected to ignore it.

He cut a glance to Captain Ogden, who was looking rather pleased with herself. When they finally made eye contact, she shrugged apologetically, but offered little else in the way of support. Her game was a simple one: to get her adversary's mind off of the impending negotiations and lighten his spirits. If it would bring a poor restless soul closure, William was more than willing to join in.

Standing, he removed the square of paper from his pocket and spread it out before them on the table. All those assembled peered down at it; Miss Barlow even removed a lantern from its hook on the wall and held it up for additional illumination. It was only mere seconds before each of them realized they were looking at a miniscule, yet immaculate, rendering of the island of Puerto Rico.

"It's all in Spanish," Higgins said dismissively; clearly, he was willing to assimilate their culture and wealth for a quick thrill, but learning their language was _out of the question._

William nodded, trying not to notice how Ogden was hiding her smirk behind an open palm. "So it is, Henry. If you'll direct your attention to the upper right corner of the island, you'll notice an inscription."

"What does it say?"

Margaret opened her mouth to speak, but was quickly cut off with a slicing motion of the hand. She and her superior seemed to communicate with a pointed glance; a moment later, she stood and left the room, leaving the lantern on the table.

"I believe I may be able to assist you, gentlemen," Julia offered. There was _that look_ again, that somehow conveyed that he was to agree with whatever she had to say. Almost too loudly for his comfort, she recited, "Here lies my eternal wealth."

For a few seconds, Murdoch was agape. Was the woman who'd been conspiring against his shipmates since the beginning on his side?

"Why would the bugger write something like that?" Brax snorted. "That's no way to keep your treasure from falling into the wrong hands."

He closed his mouth with a snap. "Perhaps he has no next of kin." The lies flew out his mouth just as soon as he could think of them. "Look at the map; he's surrounded by competition. Imagine what an insult it would be to his neighbors for his riches to come into the possession of the British."

The disdainful expression of the lady Captain indicated that his attempt at an explanation had missed the mark. "Nevermind the circumstances and look at the logistics. The plantation is far enough away from any major town, so you won't have their coppers asking questions. Even if there's someone on that property, you'll be able to tell them that you're doing them a favor. And when their backs are turned, you run the final hundred feet to the beach and board, never to be seen again."

Thomas nodded, fully taken in by what she was saying. "Why are you telling us this, Captain, when our lawman could have done the same?"

Her smile was so sincere in that moment that even William was close to believing her. "Consider it part of the settling of our score. Now, speaking of which…"

-0-

Ten minutes later, the proprietors of the _Arcadia_ and the _Temperance_ were standing at the head of the table before a contract of their own design. Through her cunning and negotiating skills, Captain Ogden had managed to talk her opponent up to a _forty_ percent share of the Spaniards' cargo, contingent on the fact that she stayed away from their claim on the Puerto Rican treasure. And of course she had sworn to this, with a twinkle in her eye and two fingers crossed behind her back.

William stood to one side, admiring his handiwork. Brackenreid could only manage to scrawl a rather wobbly T and B, while Ogden made a show of signing her full name with an elegant hand. As the rest of the male contingent had left the room, he soon found himself alone with her.

Suddenly realizing his position, he moved to leave. But something just kept him from turning the corner-

"You are a learned woman," he marveled, meaning it as a complement.

She bit her lip and acknowledged this. "My father was a doctor, who taught me all manners of language, natural science, and philosophy. I might even know enough to challenge some of those charlatans that charge you a month's wages just to lance your arm."

The practice of bloodletting was widely conducted and mostly respected; although he hadn't done much reading on the subject, Murdoch hadn't much cause to question it. There were all kinds of ill humors in the world, the scourges of wickedness and pride, and he'd simply assumed that the tension could be eased thusly. He made a mental note to research the matter further at next port. "Why are you not practicing medicine?"

It was a foolish question, for he knew that women were no more likely to serve in Parliament than they were to dispense cures as more than a village soothsayer. Julia chuckles, touching his arm. He glances down at it as if it had spontaneously caught on fire.

"For the same reason you aren't an established lawyer in London town, Mr. Murdoch," she answered. "It just wasn't meant to be."

Actually, there was another reason. After university, he'd made a conscious effort to immerse himself into his continuing studies, but he was distracted by a lovely young woman named Liza. She'd loved him, emotionally served him, and turned his preconceived notions of the world on end. And then she'd died in a summer bout of the plague and been carted out to a mass grave by the housekeeper before he could return home for the evening. For that, William would never forgive himself.

Deep in contemplation, he nodded and turned to leave once again.

A hand came out and seized his elbow, breaching the decorous space that had been held between them until now. "You strike me as a decent man, William, with a good heart. Whatever you find out there, _excluding_ treasure, I wish you the best of luck."

He thanked her, but couldn't keep the prospect out of his voice when he said: "Is this the last I'll see of you?"

"I doubt so. If Brax has a say, he won't be able to stay away from his lady friend. We're rarely in the same port without some degree of fortuitous intervention on his part. I advise you to make nice with the man, for he can provide to you things you might have never imagined," she counseled, knowing how hypocritical that must sound while she's practicing the exact opposite.

As she slides past him and makes for the door, he feels her breath as a gentle caress on his ear. It's nearly a breach of propriety, but what she has to say next fills him with inexorable hope. "May God keep you." It's in the most subtle of whispers, and lends him strength for what he is prepared to do next.

-0-

William immediately seeks out Captain Brackenreid on the weather deck on the _Arcadia_. As it turned out, he wasted no time in gutting the Spanish ship's cargo holds, and the men are presently engaged in yielding to his order. But the man in question is nowhere to be found; he'd excused himself to the wardroom for a brief respite. A little flustered by this news, he leans against the mizzenmast and observes the crates flying with almost deadly accuracy between the hands of the midshipmen.

He notices that George Crabtree is currently entertaining the company of one of the ladies of the _Temperance_ , the very same who had been their prisoner for a short time. They're conversing healthily; he speaks with his hands to the aid of his story, while she doubles over in laughter. It's certainly not the anticipated behavior of a jailer and his charge.

One of the crates is slid across the deck by way of a slippery patch of brine; Higgins is after it in a second, using a crowbar to pry it open. Bolts upon bolts of fine Spanish silk spill out, causing an uproar among the men who were familiar with its worth. Henry seems to be working at a furious pace, almost as if he's trying to forget the course of the negotiations.

He'd almost about to initiate a conversation with him when Jackson bursts forth from the ladder, out of breath and red in the face. The other sailors take notice and move towards him, but not before he can gasp, "You will not _believe_ what I've just seen!"

There's cries of "Come on, man!" and "Tell us!" but he hadn't been planning to wait as it was. Bracing himself against a companion, he continues, "That woman from the _Temperance_ , the one that can challenge the best of us to a shooting contest, was in his quarters waiting for him, naked as the day she was born! You won't believe it, gents. Let me tell you…"

A projectile flies past his head, and for one endless moment William fears that it's nicked his ear. But it finds its mark, shattering the one bolt that Higgins had been struggling to remove. The rest of the contents spilled onto the deck in a second. All assembled turned to witness Miss Barlow ascending to the deck dressed in nothing but her underclothes, a stained white chemise and bloomers. In her arms she balanced her coat, dress, and shoes, her gun tucked in the crook of one elbow. All was silent for a moment, and then one of the sailors whistled in appreciation. It was all over after that.

She made a show of wiggling her hips towards the crowd, much to the amusement of her female crew mates preparing to untether and bear away from the wind. There were a great deal of whoops and hollers from both sides; in the fray, Miss Grace left to join her friend. William's keen eyes noticed that she delivered a kiss on the cheek to her lucky conversational partner before departing, waving and pretending to swoon like a grand dame at the opera.

While the men were still distracted by this scene, Murdoch decided that he might as well choose now to speak to the Captain. It seemed like as good a time as any, but he dearly hoped he wouldn't be treated to a similar surprise in his bunk that night.

-0-

He found Brackenreid in his quarters, hat and coat discarded over a hook on the door. His smile was that of a man who'd managed to get a little action before being caught in the act. Presently, he was perched at the end of his bunk, a Cuban cigar dangling from his lips.

"If you've come to discuss the map, there's nothing left to be said, Murdoch," he stated. "I've told Worsley to divert course. With any luck, we can make back the profits we stand to lose with your passage."

So that was it, no expression of gratitude or anything of the sort. He was suddenly consumed by guilt of the falsehoods he'd told, knowing that he would soon have to atone for them. But Brackenreid spoke first, gesturing to a chair on the opposite end of the room. "Take a seat. You and I are very similar, I hope you know."

William complied, his brow furrowed in confusion. "How's that?"

"We're both men with a goal in mind," he explained, tapping the end of his cigar to discard the ash. "You with your work with the constabulary, and myself with keeping the Spanish influence away from the islands. We know things that the other may not, and in that way, we can help one other."

 _Was he onto him?_ Avoiding eye contact, Murdoch nodded slowly. As much as he didn't want to acknowledge it, they were both toiling under the same Crown, and that made their aims at least somewhat honorable.

"I want you to know, sir, that I respect your expertise. It's been awhile since my crew has been this well behaved on a journey, and I believe they've learned a lot from you. You may disagree with how we conduct business-it's far from the civilized world we knew back home-but that's how it has to be. Perhaps you can try to understand."

Yes, perhaps. The more he thought about it, the more appealing this hedonistic way of life seemed, to take what one wanted and never care for the consequences. But he was forever tethered to religion and decorum, both of which threw a huge obstacle in his admission to the captain. One day, sooner rather than later, he would tell him. One day, he would know what it was like to stand at the bow and let the wind fall around him like so much water.

Muttering his gratitude, Murdoch made a quick exit.

 _(to be continued)_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Pardon the delay, for finals are but in a few days. I love researching for this story, especially when it comes down to "medieval card games" or "17th century Spanish currency". I should note that I will never describe the slaves using racial slurs, though some of the more coarser characters might. I will instead describe them as "African" or "dark-skinned", as is more respectful.

Next time: a ghastly discovery, and Julia's hidden talents are revealed.

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter Five**

No sooner than ten days later, the _Arcadia_ sailed in the bustling city of San Juan.

As a territory of the Spanish crown, it wasn't so much of a capital as it was the default gathering place for men of their kind. So numerous were the log cabins that they nearly stood on top of each other with no discernible order or pattern. From every window hung the Spanish flag or secular banners of many colors. The tallest building was perhaps a story and a half, for no larger could be built on the beach without risk of collapse. The docks themselves were in the crook between a small peninsula and the mainland over a rocky outcropping. There were military men roaming the alleys, their pointed helmets and scabbards glimmering in the oppressive heat, but they paid little mind to the ships coming into port. Many of the characters in the city were dressed like them, in bare feet and threadbare trouser sets. Although he hadn't been there for longer than a few minutes, William got the distinct sense that this was a privateering town.

He didn't even wait for the crewman named Hodge to finish tying a rope to the mooring; scrambling over the side of the gunwale, Murdoch knelt into the sand and nearly wept for joy at the sensation of something solid underneath his feet. After five months- _land, glorious land_. He couldn't believe it.

George Crabtree followed him, sparing his companion little more than a cursory glance and a pat on the back. The Captain had let the men draw cards and effectively split them into two groups. Bells and leaves would have the next twenty-four hours as shore leave, while hearts and acorns would wait until the day after. It was through some minor miracle or clever dealing that Brax, George, and William had all drawn the first shift. While their crewmates filed into the taverns or houses of debauchery, they would journey to the east of the island to the plantation of Florencio de la Vega.

All of the men had put on their Sunday best in preparation for their meeting. From what they could glean from the dock workers, Señor de la Vega was a mogul in sugar cane who owned prime territory and over three hundred African slaves. Getting a private audience with him would be near to impossible.

"You're in charge, Higgins," Brackenreid said as an afterthought as he folded the rope ladder against the hull. "I don't want a single scratch on her."

"Guaranteed, sir," the young man replied, and saluted with all the rigidity of a palace guard.

No sooner had the threesome disappeared from view into the bustling town center did some of the sailors spot the profile of a familiar ship approaching from down the beach. It wasn't initially much of a distraction; those that were not currently engaged in swabbing the deck and mending grapeshot holes in the sails were preparing their wares for a trading excursion into their port of call.

It was Morrison that beckoned him to the forecastle; leaning over the bowsprit and peering into the Captain's spyglass, they could just make out the shadow of a figurehead of the goddess Athena. Soon enough, someone was descending from considerable height to shake hands with the port master, their blonde locks tucked up into the dome of their hat. Were it not for the womanly figure evident behind the folds of her trousers and white shirt, Julia Ogden could have been mistaken for a man.

"What the devil is she doing here?" The boy marveled, a little too loudly. Looking around, he was satisfied to see that no one had taken notice to his outburst. Hadn't she agreed not to meddle in their claim only a few days ago? The lady Captain was cunning and a keen business negotiator, but dishonorable she was not. Something didn't quite add up.

Then, he turned to his companion and told him in tones a touch higher than a conspiratorial whisper: "Tell Jackson he's in charge for the time being. I'm going to investigate."

-0-

To the supreme dismay of Brackenreid, the plantation was nearly sixteen miles away as the crow flew. This amounted to nearly an hour's carriage ride, squeezed into the back of a narrow hansom with two other men. The driver spoke no English, meaning he had to be dependent on the expertise of Sir Murdoch. And only heaven knew what was going on in that man's head.

His cabin boy babbled on about inconsequential things, such as the sapphire opacity of the sea in this region, or the heady aroma of spices that had hung over one's head in the city. His senseless chatter was unbearable. How did he, the captain of the vessel, wind up sitting in the middle anyway?

The lawman sat to his other side, peering out of the open windows as the scenery changed from urban to pastoral. They were now in sugar country; on opposite sides of the path, he could see the ducking forms of African slaves as they bent to their work amidst the waving cane stalks. There were men, women, and children amongst their ranks; some appeared modestly coifed and westernized, while others wore their hair loose and sported the vibrant garments of their homeland. As they bent and swayed, he could just barely make out them singing in their native languages amongst themselves, almost as if in one voice. William watched all of this and did not say a word.

Thomas wanted to trust the mainlander, as delicate and unreadable as he was, because he wished to believe that his country back home was in good hands. Even this was a tough sell, for the well-to-do were never on the side of his kind. He couldn't convince himself that Murdoch would breach the code of law just for the benefit of his escort vessel, unless of course they were starting to rub off on him. It was an issue for another hour, another day.

Eventually, they came upon a set of cast iron gates that seemed to be the end of trail. The driver reigned in his team, exited the cab, and pushed them apart. A moment later, a magnificent white clay mausoleum came into view. It seemed to have innumerable open windows, each bracketed by a tall arch that did its part to shelter a stone walkway. Several exterior chimneys and rounded turrets were paved with red brick; this was the type of home to keep more than one garden and courtyard tucked away in its striking depths. And although he knew they were there on other business, Brackenreid couldn't wait to sample its opulence.

Murdoch paid the driver, who nodded his gratitude and sped away. He would return in two hours' time to retrieve them and bring them back around to the docks, assuming all went well.

The trio approached a heavy set of cedar doors with finely carved knobs. George reached out and tested one, and finding it was unlocked, pulled it out to his shoulder. Both of the other men sprung into action, immediately pushing it closed once more. Taking a deep breath, William rapped on the door with the sum of his strength.

Inside, the sound reverberated a thousand times over. Each were mentally picturing marble floors buffed to an immaculate shine. Finally, just before they were about to declare their mission for naught and return another day, the entrance opened a fraction of an inch.

"¿ _Quienes están allí_?" Came the plaintive request. When it was discovered that they were not thieves or other malevolent characters as far as outward aesthetics went, the gap widened to reveal an African girl no older than fifteen. She wore a stiff collar and voluminous sleeves that were unbecoming of her short stature. Her hair had been tortured into a severe updo, with crimped curls framing either side of her face. And although she spoke with an accent, indicative of her short term speaking the Spanish language, her diction was clear and confident.

" _Nos gustaría hablar con el propietario de esta casa. Soy policía, y estos hombres son marineros de Inglaterra,_ " William answered, introducing them and requesting to speak to the master of the estate.

The girl's eyes lit up in fear at the last words and she shut the door with a slam. Her frantic footsteps were heard retreating from their direction; a moment later, a woman was heard to chastise her in a firm tone.

The stately clicks of heeled shoes approached the three men. The door opened with a leisurely flick of the wrist to reveal the likes of a woman with beauty Thomas had never seen.

Her skin was the palest of creams, offset by voluminous locks of dusky hair. Rouge had been applied to her cheeks and lips with a liberal hand, but that did not diminish the shock of her piercing hazel eyes. Unlike Captain Ogden, who was a handsome lady in her own right, she had been drawn up in layers of corsetry and lace, culminating in a bodice that exposed a near scandalous amount of cleavage. She was the very picture of aloof court decadence.

To his side, Murdoch introduced himself, followed by George, who had apparently picked up a thing or two. But he was stuck. _Just how did he say "Brackenreid" in the Spanish language?_

Noticing that he was struggling, the lady said, "Gentlemen, we may speak in English. My husband deals with many traders of your kind. I am Salma de la Vega."

Although her words were heavily punctuated with her lilting accent, Thomas understood every word. Visibly relieved, he bent at the waist to kiss her outstretched hand.

All those present had removed their hats out of respect. Murdoch repeatedly traced over the brim of it in his fingers, for he was the one preparing to deliver bad news. "If we may speak to him, we bring some news from the sea."

Her delicate lips bent in a tiny _O_ of surprise. "Of course. Does it have to do with Mateo?"

From her hopeful expression, Thomas surmised that this was indeed her son, the man who had entrusted them with his family's fortune. It occurred to him that if a child was willing to forsake his forefathers and defer their riches to perfect strangers, the rightful owners must have been pretty rotten to begin with. He made a mental note to keep tabs on the whereabouts of the lady of the house while in her domain.

"I see," she muttered upon seeing William's head nod, before stepping aside and gesturing to the cavernous inside of her abode. "Please, come in."

-0-

Immediately after conferring with the port authority, Captain Ogden had returned to her ship. For a length of time spanning half an hour, no single soul neither came nor went from the _Temperance_. Finally, just as Higgins was about to give up and return to his own vessel, a figure stepped over the gunwale and onto the pier. She carried a substantial bundle in arms; as she fled the wharf in the direction of the marketplace, he followed at a distance, ducking behind various landmarks as he went.

His stealth was most likely unnecessary; the lady sailor kept her eyes trained at the ground. Eventually, not without several rather ungraceful near collisions with passersby, Henry came within ten feet of her retreating back. She was a dark skinned woman, whose thick curls were tied back at the nape of her neck with a bit of twine. Catching her profile as she cut a sharp left into the labyrinthine open air market, he finally realized where he'd seen her before: standing at the helm of the _Temperance_ , steering them back out into open sea.

At last she came to a halt before one of the only stalls flying the British flag from its eaves. The gentleman-if he could even be called that with a reasonable degree of misgiving-glared at her reproachfully, not deigning to set down his pipe or even get up from his chair where he was conversing with his fellow merchants. A bit of irritation passed across her expression; with a plop, she dropped her pack on the counter. The wayward corner of a vibrant red silk spilled out; finally, the vendor offered her the attention she deserved.

"Where did a woman like you come into possession of merchandise like that?" He snorted, pawing at the fabric with covetous intentions. "If you've stolen it from your master, I could call the coppers and have you jailed."

"I most certainly have not," she replied, her chin held high. She was no slave, and was determined to have the man and his grotesque companions know that. "I am a delegate from the vessel _Temperance_ , and under the authority of Captain Julia Ogden, I demand that a transaction is conducted."

Kneeling behind a cart of exotic fruits, Higgins couldn't help but smile at her gumption. Meanwhile, the merchant smirked and said, "A privateering negro? Huh, very well. How much change have you to settle the difference?"

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion, as if she wasn't sure. She reached for the front pocket of her satchel, indicating where her coin purse was kept. Suddenly, Henry sprang into action, rising to his feet and staggering a few feet to her side. "That won't be necessary. The lady will take thirty _reales de plata_ for exchange today."

The two made eye contact; first she appeared shocked, knowing that she'd been followed all the way from the docks, but then realization hit her. If she was to reveal the money her superior had entrusted her, she might have been taken advantage of or offered a lesser amount than was warranted. Turning back to the trader, she nodded vigorously.

He sighed heavily and stroked his beard, knowing that his plot at petty trickery had been foiled. Disappearing below the counter, he reemerged with a handful of coins, which the woman quickly pocketed.

A moment later, once the deal had been seen through to completion, the two turned and began a rather awkward return to the docks. After an endless minute of uncomfortable silence, Higgins exclaimed, "You must be new!"

At her censorious look, he continued, "To the business, I mean. An experienced privateer would never reveal their financial standing, especially if they want to make a good trade. But that isn't to say that you couldn't ever be experienced, because there's lots of time to improve your craft. My bunkmate, George, as it were-"

She cut him off with a slicing gesture of the hand. "It's quite alright. I'm Rebecca James, and you are correct in your assumption. I've been in the company for but three months."

"Henry Higgins of the _Arcadia_ ," he introduced himself, stopping to bow at the waist. To his disappointment, she didn't stop to entertain the genuflection, and he had to scramble to catch up with her. "Forgive me for following you, Miss James. Brax left me in charge while he goes treasure hunting, and I thought he might want to know the whereabouts of your crewmates. We didn't know you'd be landing in San Juan shortly after us, you see."

"Neither did we," she responded quietly, and he was left wondering what exactly she meant by that.

There was no more discussion for some time after that; eventually, they reached the point of their departure, and Henry still had a pressing matter on his mind. He could only hope that it wouldn't come out as intrusive. "How is it that you came to speak English with a Spanish accent?"

The look in her eyes did not come without a sense of exhaustion, both mentally and physically. "I've had a lot of masters, sir. Good day."

And with that, Rebecca turned on her heels and trudged back up the wharf to the _Temperance_.

-0-

Once within the home, the enterprising trio was introduced to Florencio de la Vega, who sat in repose in the receiving room. Handshakes were exchanged; George simply couldn't stop gaping at the egregious displays of wealth that surrounded him. Hand woven tapestries and portraits wider than his arm span were hung above eye level, causing him to stare at them in open-mouthed shock. The ceilings were impossibly high; their every footstep echoed all around. One couldn't take one step to the left or the right without spotting another mahogany furniture piece piled with lush blankets and feathered down pillows. In the three minutes he'd been within the home, he'd seen no less than eight servants, all of whom avoided eye contact with him. An eerie silence pervaded in the home, as if was weighed down by grief suffered by those within.

"It's been an eternity since we had visitors for the midday meal, _querido_ ," Salma plied her husband, her tone oddly hopeful. "Let us discuss business in the dining hall."

It was a hall indeed, for there was seating for nearly fifty. They spoke of trade winds, and the shaky state of affairs between their nations, and the lovely weather they'd been having on the island. No one broached the subject that hung over everyone's head like a curtain.

The young girl they'd seen at the front door emerged with several others in tow, serving a vibrant Spanish liquor and china bowls of a red soup that was cold to the touch.

"It's _gazpacho_ ," Florencio explained, sipping his wine. He was apparently amused at his guests' ignorance. "There's tomato and sundry other vegetables, as well as a bit of sugar from our fields." This was not said without a touch of pride.

Brackenreid was about to pick up the dish with his hands when William cleared his throat loudly, indicating that they were to indulge with the silver spoons that had been provided to them by their hosts. It seemed to Thomas like a perfect waste of time. Why, back in the galley, they'd be slurping the stuff down by the gallon.

"What brings you to the island, Captain?" The man of the house asked, noticing his struggle with table manners.

It wasn't as if he could say that they were only here to spy on them and then rob them blind. Slowly, he began, "We're couriers by profession, bringing correspondence and such to and from the mainland. In fact, we're escorting Sir Murdoch to Barbados. He's a lawman, and his orders are to bring order to the island."

At this point, he would have done anything to divert the attention away from himself and his uncomfortable acclimation to high society. A toast was made to William's noble cause.

"Anything to forcibly stop the heathen activities of those thieves that call themselves _privateers_ ," Senor de la Vega sniffed disdainfully.

"Here, here," George said, ignoring the glare given to him by his supervisor.

William set down his napkin and peaked his fingertips together. "Madam, I would kindly request that we discuss the matter that's brought us here today."

"But of course," Salma acknowledged. "Have you a letter from my Mateo? Does he send his best?"

He swallowed loudly, bracing himself for the emotional onslaught he was expecting. "I regret to inform you that your son is dead."

There was a moment of silent anticipation. The lady carefully set down her goblet, smiling cautiously. "Surely this cannot be."

"I assure you, it is so. We spoke to his commanding officer just a fortnight ago. He perished in combat with British pirates, I'm afraid, and was buried at sea," George assured her, surprised how easily the twisted truth escaped his lips.

Florencio stood, his expression devoid of emotion. His wife made a move to join him, but found that she could not bring herself upright. She collapsed on the floor and began to weep, her sobs echoing up the walls and into the corridor.

 _(to be continued)_


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: At last, the mystery presents itself. There's a play off of Jilliam's experiment with absinthe, adjusted for historical pertinence. We get to savor a little moment with each couple. Enjoy!

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter Six**

Long after their meal, the trio departed the home only to find that their hansom had left without them. They'd spent an inordinate amount of time consoling Salma, who had been thoroughly broken by grief. Her husband hadn't shed a single tear, curiously, but had thanked them for their candor and sent them on their way with a bid to return in the morning for trade.

And now they stood some distance from the mansion, heads bent together as they bickered over their next move. "Did you see how heartbroken that woman was? We cannot just relieve them of their fortune after that!" George hissed, appalled that his companions would even consider such a thing.

"That isn't our problem," Thomas argued, ignoring the sting of his words. The truth was that it had been an eternity since he'd seen a woman weep, and she'd been his mother at the news that his sister had suffered an untimely death. It pulled at his heartstrings, as little as he wanted to admit it. "We've journeyed this far, who could be against going a little farther?"

The young man cut a beseeching glance at his other companion, hoping he would have something to say to support his aims. But William appeared deep in thought. There was something about this plantation, something steeped in mysteries, and secrets, and shame. The sun was only beginning to dip below the horizon. Soon, they wouldn't be able to find their way back to the path.

He surged forward into the sugar cane, spotting the guiding star and chasing after it. It felt as if the weight of the untold dead were pressing down on him, urging him to action. Not without a few half-hearted protests and questioning exclamations, George and Thomas followed him into the waving rows.

Eventually Murdoch slowed, pulling the map from his pocket. Their treasure should be somewhere around here... _perhaps just under their feet…_

George nearly tripped over his hunched form. Using his hands, he was pawing at a hardened patch of dirt that seemed to be piled higher than the surrounding areas. They'd come to a clearing of sorts within the endless sea of sugar cane, and it seemed to be the logical place.

"Help him out, son," Brax insisted, pushing him down to his knees.

After a moment wherein the boy discovered he was the only one fully committed to the task, he protested, "Why am I always the one digging holes?"

There was an offhanded comment about him being perfectly good at it. Murdoch began to pace, wringing his hands over and over again. After three feet or so, George hit a hard patch. He caught a whiff of something foul, but he chalked it up to the sitting pools of saltwater that must have been on the beach only a quarter mile away.

He'd uncovered a box about four feet long and three span wide. Behind him, Brackenreid caught his breath. George seized the hinge and pulled upwards, surprised at how easily it gave way.

Immediately, the scent of decaying organic matter overpowered him. He fell back onto his haunches and crawled away from the miserable stench, then pitched forward and began to retch.

"Bloody hell! What's that?" Brackenreid coughed, burying his nose into his sleeve. Unbeknownst to any of them-except perhaps for Murdoch, who'd had a sneaking suspicion as to what they might find-they'd stumbled across the decaying corpse of what was either a child or a very small man. The humid climate had rendered their face unrecognizable, making its flesh an oily black color. There were a few patches of dark hair here and there, but what had apparently stuck around the longest was a faded blue striped pinafore.

William made the sign of the cross. Clutched in the cadaver's lifeless hands was a piece of parchment folded lengthwise. Working it out from under the vice of its clenched fingers proved to be quite the task, and was not accomplished without some awestruck declarations by Thomas.

It could have been really _anything_ under this light, but he thought he could make out a very detailed charcoal etching of a group of people, perhaps numbering six in all. There was a man and a woman sitting together, dressed in extravagant finery, whose faces had been scratched out with a series of angry strokes. A young man stood behind them, hands clasped and at attention to the unseen artist. Two older people, both dark skinned, stood somberly to one side. Set apart from them was a small girl, her hair drawn up in a bow with a prodigious smile on her face. In her lap, she held a handmade doll and a book.

But what struck him the most was the way the tip of a pencil had been used to indicate vertical lines on her jumper.

"Gentlemen, I believe we are looking at the victim of a rather unfortunate incident," he said, shutting the lid of the coffin with a thud.

The Captain observed his suspiciously calm demeanor, and the way he hadn't even flinched when they'd uncovered the body. And suddenly he was enraged.

"You knew the entire time we wouldn't find treasure!" He accused, getting into the personal space of his boarder. "By God, you _knew_!"

There was no way he was willing to admit that. Nevertheless, to say that he expected the two of them to be immediately on board with his deception would have been a falsehood as well. "You probably lied to us about that inscription, too!" George, having righted himself once again, was jumping on the bandwagon. "What's really written on that map, eh?"

He held up his palms in an attempt to placate the men standing on either side of him. "I know you both must be furious-"

"You're damn right," Thomas cursed. "I've half a mind to just leave you here out in the fields and let you fend for yourself. Why, I might-"

The rustling of sugar cane distracted them from their confrontation. William caught a glimpse of something red in his peripheral vision, and followed that to its natural conclusion. The cabin boy jumped immediately to action, dashing a few dozen feet to capture the eavesdropper.

When they finally caught up with him, all were surprised to see the servant from the house wriggling under George's grasp. He had her pinned to the ground, elbows pushed into the dirt, and she was thrashing her legs and torso about wildly. All the while, she was repeating, " _¡No me hagas daño!_ "

"We're not going to hurt you," William hollered at last, pulling his companion off of her. Instead of running away, she settled down, peering up at him with beseeching eyes. "We want to help you."

" _Ayuda a Luisa_ ," she said quietly, glancing between the three men that could have the privilege of torturing her if they wanted.

Thomas sighed, knowing that his fate had been sealed. If they sent the servant girl on her way without telling her their intentions, the master of the house would surely hear about this and they'd be blacklisted from trade all over the island. Then again, he had no idea why a child's body had been buried out in the depths of a cane field, nor what it meant to their travel itinerary.

The Scot knelt down and took the girl's hands, pulling her upright. " _¿Quién es Luisa? ¿Esa chica?_ " He questioned, desperate to get more information out of her.

She shook her head vigorously, her eyes wide with fear. Meanwhile, George had helped himself to the discarded parchment and was studying the likenesses in the moonlight. "Sir, look at this little girl. Don't you want to know why she died?"

His expression was so hopeful that he couldn't let that sentiment die. "Crabtree, we're not here to play police investigator! This isn't our land, and this isn't our business!"

The cabin boy gave him an incredulous look, and he didn't even need to elaborate on what he was thinking: surely it _became_ their business after they unknowingly went out of their way to grave dig. They'd become implicated in this with the nature of their work, the bullet in Mateo's back, and the literal dirt on his hands. Thomas took one look at the drawing, so thoughtfully rendered, and then at William conversing with the slave girl on the ground. And he came to his decision.

"Tell her that no one's to lay a finger on her as long as we're ashore," he encouraged. In the past few moments, they'd learned that the girl's Christian name was Noemí, she was thirteen years old, and she was the personal handmaiden to Salma de la Vega. Whatever had transpired in the past six months to a year, she was too traumatized to discuss. She kept looking over her shoulder, her delicate hands shaking like leaves.

The men came to some sort of silent congress, wherein William offered them what was most certainly the first smile they'd seen come out of him in so many days. He relayed this message and urged the girl to return to the home under a new oath of silence. They'd return in a day's time with new information when she was willing to share it.

Her parting words before disappearing was to search for " _la dadivosa_ ", a term of endearment, Murdoch explained, meaning generous and open-handed. As George pointed out, this could indicate many people, and they had their work cut out for them. Thomas snorted with disdain, although his anger had long since dissipated. "Enlighten us. Where does one start with a case like this?"

"And how do you know that the girl didn't die of natural causes?" The young man asked, packing in the last portion of dirt with his boot.

"You neglected to look with your eyes, George," he replied, pointing to his own chest just above the heart. "The flesh may wither, but blood marks remain. Clearly whatever happened to the child is affecting everyone else here."

"I knew that woman wasn't to be trusted," Thomas expressed. "The pretty ones never are. And the man is also to be suspected. Did you see how he didn't shed a tear at the news of the death of his son?"

In his mind's eye, he's standing at the threshold of his family home, satchel over one shoulder. He can make out the muffled cries of his mother as she tends to his sister's newly lifeless body. None of them know his plans to depart on the eve, save for his father, who ushers him out with a tip of his pipe. Intuition was crucial to a matter such as this.

William shook his head. "We have no reason to suspect Salma or Florencio as of yet. It could have been a trader, or one of the other slaves. I needn't remind you there are _three hundred_ of them. What we ought to do is find out more surrounding the circumstances of the girl's death."

Both of his companions heaved monstrous sighs at this, but he wasn't discouraged. "We'd look awfully odd carting a dead body to a doctor in town, wouldn't we?" Crabtree asked rhetorically.

"Yes, I suppose we would. But I know we can resolve this ourselves. George, I want you to proceed with all haste to the nearest plantation, and catch a hansom ride into San Juan. There, I'd like you to retrieve my texts on anatomy-"

"Now, wait just a moment," Thomas interjected, standing toe to toe with his verbal sparring partner. "You can't read a damned thing without light, and that would raise suspicion more than anything. He wouldn't even be back before daybreak. I think we ought to start with gathering more information from the family."

"What might we say to them, Captain? That we were snooping on their land and just so happened to come across a murdered slave? Oh, and while we're at it, should we ask them if they're the culprits?" His tone was affecting a very ungracious slant. It was uncommon of him to lose his temper, but as far as Brax was concerned, he'd left it somewhere out on the open Atlantic Ocean.

While they were arguing, George began to stray from the clearing. A golden orb of light was undulating out on the open sea, growing progressively closer by the second. He tried to warn his companions of this, but they ignored him, fully committed to their argument. It beckoned him back into the waving sugar cane; seconds later, he was standing on the beach on the boundless stretch of white sand. The behemoth of the _Temperance_ treaded sea about a half mile into the horizon, dwarfing the fishing boat that was approaching his location on the reposing ebb of the evening tide. A figure standing at the prow held a lantern high above their head, while two others parted the surf with strokes of their broad oars. George was overcome with a sense of inexplicable calm, which didn't last but a minute. Then he was shouting for his superiors, who came running with all haste.

Julia Ogden greeted them at the waterfront, swathed in a rich velvet cloak that nearly perfectly melted into the backdrop of the sky. "Gentlemen, may I be of assistance?"

"What are you-"

"How on earth-"

"Please," she prevented their exclamations of wonder, "Allow me to explain. When you didn't return before sundown, your man Higgins grew anxious for your well-being. I offered to check up on your little treasure hunt, and I've brought along the brigade just in case you'd wound up in more trouble than you're worth."

Thomas made a mental note to reprimand the inexperienced cabin boy for his lack of grace under pressure. "That's quite thoughtful of you, but we're managing quite fine by ourselves. Your services are not-"

"Come with me, madam," William asserted, offering her his arm. She gratefully accepted it, and the two began to ascend the dune with George hot on their trail.

The Captain expelled a ragged sigh, but put aside his misgivings and trudged after them, followed shortly by Julia's acolytes.

-0-

"Your man Higgins is a genteel sort," Julia mused, oblivious to the various shades of green adorning the faces of her companions. "He's certainly as intelligent as any of my brigade. I will say-oh, just a moment."

She bent to her work once more, brow furrowed in concentration. Her apron was stained with thick mud and heaven knew what else, and she held a knife cocked at the ready in one hand. With her thumb and index finger, she plunged into the cadaver's chest cavity, which produced a spherical bullet along with a sickening squelching sound. "Here we are, gentlemen. Annie, if you don't mind rinsing this off."

One of the lady sailors accepted it without the bat of an eyelash and slipped past them on her way out. "So she was shot," Thomas concluded, hoping that he'd get to escape the makeshift morgue at any moment.

The oaken table in the wardroom would probably never have the stains taken out of it, even though they'd been keen to place a cloth down before removing the body from the coffin. George had been watching the Captain's every move with a fishlike gape to his mouth, utter captivated, while William had simply observed in silence. Like he always did.

"I wouldn't assume as much," she gestured to the withered neck, and the oblong marks that circumscribed it. "She was strangled beforehand. There was negligible blood pooling in the chest cavity, indicating that she'd been dead for a couple of hours before someone ever came near her with a gun."

"Why would someone shoot after they knew their victim was dead? To make sure the job was done?"

"Precisely, George," she confirmed, "Now, if I may direct your attention to this mark on her inner elbow."

They all had to squint to see the indicated stain of what could have formerly been a tattoo. Murdoch could barely make out the letters _DLV_. "A brand," he said, struck by the barbarous nature of putting such a thing on another human being.

"It's a common practice among slave owners in this region. Even if they were to run away, they wouldn't stay hidden for long," Julia covered the corpse back up with the blanket.

"So the girl belonged to the family de la Vega," Brackenreid concluded. "Anything else you feel the need to show us, Captain?"

"Yes, indeed I do. I estimate that the girl was around six or seven years old when she was murdered, and less than six months ago, at that. The other curious thing I've noticed was that what remains of her skin is not dark enough to have been full blooded African," she explained. "From my analysis of the hair, I can tell it was light to medium brown. Her facial and cranial structure also indicates at least partial European ancestry."

Thomas laughed, a short, sharp bark of amusement at the ludicrous assertion. "You're telling me that she was _mixed_? Really, Miss Ogden, you haven't seen these people. They're too high and mighty to dally outside their bloodlines."

She smirked, crossing her arms. "I only know what the body reveals, sir. And I suppose it really isn't my business. If you want to risk seeking a doctor in town, be my most gracious guest. Now, if you'll excuse me, we'll be mooring in San Juan once again at daybreak. I need to make arrangements."

Once the lady had exited the room, George turned to the older men. "If this little girl was of mixed blood, why would someone kill her? You'd think this would ingratiate her to the owners of the plantation, who would protect her. And who did the deed?"

"I don't know, George," William admitted, setting to hoisting the cadaver back into its coffin, "I don't know."

-0-

A few minutes later, the cabin boy found himself on the deserted upper deck of the _Temperance_. It was the middle of the summer, and therefore sweltering in the narrow cubby they'd been assigned as guests. Brax was incredibly irate for no particular reason, as was his wont, and he had no desire to listen to his pessimistic drivel. Besides, the moon was full and there was nary a cloud in the sky.

Sometime during the past year, he'd grown accustomed to sleeping out under the stars. The Arcadians had many enemies, which required near constant surveillance. He'd climb up to his perch in the crow's nest and lean against the main mast, letting the cool Caribbean breeze wash over him. It was better than being cramped and subjected to Henry's snoring, that much was for sure.

He found the lovely Miss Grace at the wheel, elbows propped up in the spokes. Every minute or so, she'd turn the steering mechanism ever so slightly to continue their path in tracing the outer rim of the coast. Her eyes were directed towards the land, which was free of lantern or torchlight. It was a most beautiful sight to see the immutable sugar cane swaying slowly in the breeze, present company excluded.

"I hear that you've got quite the mystery on your hands," she said at only a touch above a whisper.

That was all provocation he needed to begin babbling. "Oh, you have no idea. There's a brand, and a drawing of the little girl with some other slaves. It's all very queer, Miss Grace."

She stepped back from the wheel, hands on her hips. "I thought I told you to call me Emily. Or have you forgotten the hour or so we spent together?"

He most certainly had not. As he looked on in silence, she rubbed at her forearms with open palms, shivering a bit under the scrutiny of the sea breeze. "Are you cold?"

"A storm must be coming our way," she mused, "I can feel it in my bones."

That was as good a confirmation as any. "I do wish I had a shawl or coat to offer you while you stood post, but I'm afraid I left my own back on the _Arcadia_."

A flash of frustration passed over her delicate features. "Come here."

 _Where_? They were standing close enough already to break professional decorum. George stepped closer to the wheel, touching shoulders with the marksman. Her hand shot out and seized his with deadly accuracy, bringing it into the curve of her waist. She was cuddled close enough to him so that he could feel the hilts of the knives at her belt against his hip. Yet somehow they felt well together, especially when she dropped her head into the crook of his neck. Her voice caused his arms to erupt in gooseflesh: "Are the stars not beautiful tonight?"

With one hand, she turned the wheel to navigate around a sandbar that jutted out from the coast. All the while, she began to contentedly hum a little ditty that he distantly recalled from his childhood. George recalled Emily saying that she always knew she was destined for a life at sea. Perhaps it was for moments like these.

-0-

Long after the corpse of the slave girl had been taken away and stored in the cargo hold, William remained in the wardroom. The charcoal drawing sat before him on the table, illuminated by lamplight. The more he gazed upon it, the more details jumped out at him. The man and woman seated in the center were rigid in their posture, and seemed to be unaware of each other. If he squinted, he could make out the ghost of their features, each bent in a scowl that could only be described as demonic. In terms of attire, they bore more than a passing resemblance to Florencio and Salma de la Vega. But it didn't make sense for plantation owners to go around murdering their own slaves, and for that reason he made a mental note to find his way into the island's property archives the following morning. There was a missing piece of the puzzle, and Murdoch had a feeling that it had to do with Noemí and the rest of the young slaves.

Julia swept into the room, covered from wrist to toe in a starched white nightgown. It felt a bit inappropriate to see a woman in her sleeping clothes, no matter how modest. He averted his eyes, only to have a bottle of amber fluid set down in front of him.

"What's this, Captain Ogden?" He asked, genuinely mystified.

She removed two glass tumblers from the cabinet and poured them each a draught of the stuff, which smelled sharply vaporous with a tinge of sweetness. "It's the chief alcohol made in these parts. They call it rum, and it's mainly distilled juice of the sugar cane."

"I'm afraid I'm not a habitual imbiber," William admitted. "I've seen the drink ruin lives sooner than it brings merriment."

"Nonsense. You appear to have a great deal on your mind, and I'm only here to listen. There's no harm anyhow, because I'm sworn to noninvolvement, at least in theory," she said with a glint in her eye, and raised her glass in silent tribute. "It's just a drink, William. It won't hurt you."

Naturally, she was right. The secrets held by a deceased little girl were weighing heavily on him as of late. _And oh, how irrationally did he want to please her._

Murdoch downed the contents of the glass, drawing a cocked eyebrow from his counterpart. "You know, the men of the islands call this stuff _kill-devil_ , because after a few turns with it the base instincts come out to play."

Although her words were flirtatious, her tone carried none of that weight. "May that come soon enough," he willed, allowing Julia to refill his cup.

-0-

Thomas lay in his assigned bunk in the barracks, listening to the beams creaking around him. Many of the ladies had moved away to give him some modicum of privacy, for he had a veritable black cloud of melancholy hanging over his head.

Part of him wanted to question Ogden's conclusions-she was, after all, not a _real_ doctor, but a woman who dallied in knowledge her father had bestowed upon her-but the more he heard of their slave girl the more he wanted to help.

It was unusual for him to focus on a matter not to his immediate benefit; he didn't wanted to admit that he'd been selfish, choosing to call it _pragmatic_. But something about this case would give him sleepless nights until it was resolved.

The lady Captain probably knew more than him anyway.

He heard his name being called from a short distance away, and rolled over to see none other than his lover, still fully dressed at the lateness of the hour. Studying how her arms were crossed across her chest, he sighed, "Not tonight, Margaret."

"I heard about the girl," she said without preamble. "You've simply got to do something about it, Tommy. She deserves closure."

"I know," he admitted, but she still wasn't going away.

At last, she broached the subject that had brought her all the way here from the aft section of the ship. "May I sleep here?"

He grunted his assent, and watched as she shimmied out of her shoes and coat. Then her gun belt clattered to the floor and she was making quick work of her hairpins, her chestnut hair reaching down to her waist. She really was a beautiful woman, and for a fleeting moment Thomas thought of making her honest right then and there.

At last Margaret curled up beside him, resting her head on his broad chest. "In the morning, you must act," she reminded him fleetingly of his obligations as they at last drifted off to sleep, and he couldn't help but agree.

 _(to be continued)_


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: I'm sorry to say that there probably won't be an update for the next week as I visit relatives overseas. However, I do have three weeks of free time in January due to the eternally strange schedule of my university...I digress. As long as we can get to the end of the month, updates will only increase in frequency.

The first of several major twists is dropped in this chapter. Read what leads up to it very carefully, and you'll get it before our characters do!

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter Seven**

"I'm telling you, he wouldn't stop gushing about this woman from the _Temperance_. Apparently they spent all night in the hold discussing trading regulation and bartering techniques. If you ask me, that just sounds like a euphemism for some less than appropriate activities-"

William winced and leaned away from his companion; even though he knew George stood a good three feet away as he aired his grievances with Henry, it felt as if he was yelling directly into his ear. After a few tumblers of the heinous concoction known as rumbullion, he had entirely lost touch with his sense of propriety.

Julia had led him to her quarters, where they'd easily gotten carried away in the passion of drink. He'd embraced her and caressed her in a way that he never had with Liza; certainly not, for with his former fiancee, he'd been able to rein in his runaway libido. But that wasn't so with the beguiling lady captain, who'd deftly unwound the closures of his shirt as if she'd done it a thousand times before. Murdoch was taken aback by her boldness. Seeing how his eyes had glazed over at her touch, she'd surged forward and kissed the bridge of his nose.

Something about the tenderness of the gesture shook William out of his lecherous reverie. He insisted they stopped immediately, and she'd complied. But, all the same, he'd stayed the night, and taken immense pleasure in the sensation of a warm body curled around him in the width of the narrow bunk. There were no words exchanged between the two as he left-certainly there was nothing more to say-and they'd traded soft smiles in a manner becoming of a pair that were keen to keep a secret.

He really should have felt guilty, but as he passed Brax on the walkway, his cheeks stained with the rouge of his lady friend, all of that fell to the wayside. Certainly the night had passed with both his and Julia's honor intact, leaving only a pounding headache and incurable nausea in its wake. And that sickness had brought him to the plantation, where he'd suffered in silence for the past few hours, indignant not to make the source of his plight known to his companions. Some habits never truly died, or so it seemed.

Thomas was currently engaged in regaling his host with a falsified story as to how the _Arcadia_ had come into their great riches as a courier vessel. Officially, it was because they did such a fine job of relaying intelligence that their patrons couldn't help but compensate them with their best trinkets. If it was a poor disguise of their true intentions, the patriarch of the family didn't seem to notice. His eyes fairly shone with interest as he examined their fripperies. It quite reminded William of a caricature a cleric might draw as the manifestation of the sin of greed; as the goods passed from one hand to the other, he kept his eyes peeled for any other covetous gestures.

There was a parcel of English tea, a carved music box from the orient, and even a satchel full of fragrant tobacco from the colonies. Florencio was relentless in his pursuit to handle everything. Clearly, he wouldn't be making his purchases until all of his options were laid out on the figurative table.

The three of them had also come on a mission of another kind, one that had been hurriedly hashed out on the hour long hansom ride. Each of them knew their role in this scheme, and were waiting with apprehension for the perfect moment to enact their vision.

After some time, Salma joined them in the garden, her face heavily veiled in the traditional way of mourners. She moved slowly, stately, with a starched handkerchief held in her gloved hands. Even in the infernal heat of the summer, she appeared to respect the memory of her son with a rosary and cameo layered over her dusky gown. The only other licentious pop of color appeared to be her painted lips, which moved ever so slightly as she muttered her greetings to their assembled guests.

If her state of mourning was all a ruse, it was a convincing one. Every few moments she'd let forth a prodigious sniff and dab at her eyes, whimpering with great emotional duress. Her husband fairly ignored this display; he was dressed in a fine silken shirt and breeches that were unbecoming of a man of his situation.

All of a sudden he bent forward to retrieve a carton on the ground. "Sir, this china bears the seal of a Valencian artisan that typically only sells his goods to the order of Spanish nobility. How did you come into possession of this?"

While their normally fearless leader sputtered for an answer, both of his accomplices sprung into action. As a result of the aftereffects of his heavy drinking, William had neglected to ascertain the contents of several boxes before loading them, assuming that it was English glass. It would have been only his responsibility to come to the aid of his colleague, but George beat him to it.

He addressed Salma, who surely was too withdrawn to have paid much attention to their conversation. "Madam, would you mind if I made use of your facilities?"

"Not at all, Mr. Crabtree," she replied, clapping her hands rapidly in succession. To their immense relief, the servant Noemí answered her call, bowing deeply as she stepped into the courtyard. "My girl here will escort you to the lavatory."

"I shall accompany you," William announced rather loudly, shocked at the volume of his own voice. It seemed to only echo in his skull, causing another wave of pain to shoot from his temple lengthwise. He scurried off, avoiding eye contact.

That left only Thomas in the company of the pair. It seemed that Florencio had grown disinterested in his discovery, returning to his wife's side. "If we might have a spot of time on our hands, _señor_ , I thought you might give me an abridged tour of your grand estate."

A raised eyebrow was the only indication that he'd completely butchered the pronunciation of his title. But the gentleman was flattered, and that was all that mattered. "Of course, Captain. If you'll follow me."

-0-

"And she didn't die of a gunshot, but the poor thing was _strangled_. Imagine that, someone heartless enough to choke the life out of a young child-"

Noemí spoke no English, but George's strained tones and frantic gestures were enough to frighten her. Initially she thought they were still trying to extract information out of her, and she'd refused to speak, fearing for her life. But then they'd shown her the drawing, and her eyes had lit up with recognition and inexplicable calm.

Only a moment later, the cabin boy was being guided through the labyrinthine mansion towards what was presumably the office of Florencio de la Vega. He had to nearly jump and skip to keep up with the servant, as he wasn't used to wearing shoes that pinched his toes inward. William had abandoned him in search of the other household servants, who had scampered away at the first sight of non-Spaniards entering their domain. Whatever tales of the dastardly English the family had indoctrinated them with to ensure their secrecy, they'd been splendidly effective ones.

At last they reached the heavy oaken doors of the patriarch's inner sanctum. Inside, the ceiling was tremendously high and the walls were covered in shelves of books that looked like they'd never been opened. Even the placement of the desk, facing towards the large bay windows overlooking the rows and rows of sugarcane, seemed placed and immensely sterile.

"¿ _Estás seguro_?" He questioned, employing one of the few phrases that the lawman had taught him that he actually remembered. The quills and ink wells even appeared untouched. But the girl only nodded vigorously, and lead him to a drawer whose handle was covered in at least a centimeter of dust.

She mimicked the motions of a pen and paper with her fingers, and pointed once again. " _Recordes_ ," Noemí intoned, not knowing how close her cognate was to the word she actually wanted.

It came open in an instant; George seized hold of an immense folder and dropped it onto the desktop, flipping through layers and layers of parchment detailing business transactions. Finally, he reached a list of given names and pulled it from the stack.

He'd come across a rather disorganized list of slave holdings, wherein many names were crossed out and corrected with Christian monikers. To the right was a listed price, as well as their countries of origin. There were names of places he'd only heard in legend, such as Bambouk, Loango, and Guinea. Dozens were grouped together under vague initials, which he supposed represented the dealer that had sold them or the ship that had brought them to their bondage in the colonies. After some searching, he located a familiar name and reached for his companion's hand.

Noemí flinched and stumbled away, as if she'd expected to be struck. Symbolizing he meant no harm, George bowed his head and held his hands to his sides. Once she'd recovered, he gently used her fingertip to trace the rounded letters. " _Tu nombre_ ," he explained, and he took inordinate joy in watching a wry grin split her features.

A noise was heard from the corridor, as if someone had dropped something heavy. The two jumped apart and resumed their work, knowing they could be walked in on at any moment. George's legs felt as if they would collapse underneath him; his heart was pounding so heavily he just knew that anyone standing in the room with him could hear it.

Fortunately, there was only one entry that matched a young girl named Luisa. A line had been drawn through the columns for purchase price and nationality, possibly indicating that she had been born on the island. Desperate for more information, George turned the page, and a leaflet slid out from his grasp and onto the floor.

Noemí retrieved it and placed it on top of the stack, pointing at it and then to herself. Her hands clenched together and relaxed multiple times before he finally understood that what he was looking at what a declaration of property. Indeed, many of them had been folded in lengthwise throughout the purchase records.

A date no more than a decade previously had been penciled in with a delicate hand, followed by the familiar name and their location. Curiously, in the position where a married couple's names might have been written, there was only one.

"And just who is Samiha?" He wondered aloud, fluttering through the manuscript until he found the proper entry. Whoever she was, she was from somewhere called Darfur.

All of a sudden, the slave girl began to babble in her native language and fairly tremble with excitement. She took the deed from her hand, pointing to the corner where a second date had been indicated. After Noemí placed a hand to her bosom and feigned to swoon, he caught on.

"That's the dead girl! And I suppose Samiha must be…"

" _La dadivosa. Generosa, una mujer muy_ -"

A second noise, this time closer, was detected, and the two sprung into action. Neither could remember exactly what the desk looked like beforehand, but that didn't matter as long as they were evading capture.

-0-

Meanwhile, Thomas was being treated to an endless tour of the ground level of the home. It seemed that the de la Vegas had countless sitting rooms at their disposal, all of which sported a particularly impressive piece of furniture or painting by some long dead master that could serve as a talking point. He was beginning to grow bored, and dearly wished that George and Murdoch would hurry.

"So, you see, Velázquez had just a few weeks to paint father's portrait before dashing off to complete the depiction of the _infanta_ …"

He supposed that the constant name drops were supposed to make him envious of the man's wealth, but truthfully, it only further enraged him to hear him drivel on about his own good fortune when one of his own slaves had been murdered, perhaps by his own hand.

At last they reached a grand library with an inlaid fireplace. It was filled to the brim with overstuffed chaises and shelves; in the center of it all, a family portrait hung over the doorway. Thomas stepped backwards to behold it. Certainly, for its faithful depiction of the silver hairs encroaching at Florencio's temple, it couldn't have been painted more than a decade ago.

Behind the seated couple on the canvas, a young man stood solemnly, his features entirely devoid of emotion. It finally occurred to Brackenreid where he'd seen similar posture: that blasted charcoal drawing that his charge had taken to carrying around with him. "Was this before or after Mateo joined the service?"

In the past half hour he'd spent in the company of the pair, he'd learned that the ship they'd attacked had been a royal fleet vessel tasked with defending Spanish claims among the islands. Their son had been a part of this _armada_ , and had served for all of six years before his untimely demise.

Florencio clicked his tongue, something he'd noticed that the old man kept a habit. "Mere weeks after. He refused to wear his new uniform for the portrait, for it wasn't his choice to enlist," he responded nonchalantly.

From the opposite end of the room, Salma chastised him sharply in their own language. He supposed it had something to do with speaking ill of the dead. "It's true, _querida_. If only he hadn't gotten himself into all of that trouble."

Suddenly, they realized they were not alone and would have to hash out their disagreement at a later date. Florencio made a broad gesture towards the open windows and made some excruciatingly trivial observation about their craftsmanship. With this added distraction, Salma slipped past them and into the hallway undetected.

-0-

Sir Murdoch was woefully and undeniably lost.

He'd somehow managed to circle back to his original location, but had chosen a different path and had wound up in the bowels of the entire operation. Towards the posterior of the home, a wizened old woman was set to her work of laundering the family's clothing.

Even though it was hot enough to force sweat to one's brow after mere seconds out of doors, a fire was raging before her. As he watched, she hoisted a bucket of water towards the joists above the assembly, tilting it this way and that to make sure that the licks of flame reached it. Before her stood a flat washboard, which she was using to scrub a rather persistent stain from a shirt. So frail and thin were her arms and legs that William feared she'd snap at any second. Stepping into her domain, he introduced himself as a friend of Noemí and offered his assistance.

The slave eyed him with suspicion and bent to her work once more. Gently, Murdoch knelt to her level and pushed the drawing into her line of vision.

For a fleeting moment, he feared she might snatch it and throw it into the fire. At long last, the dark skinned woman set aside her washing and pointed a bony finger towards the elderly couple standing at the foreground. What came from her mouth was not Spanish or an African language, but two definitively English names.

He stood so fast that he almost fell over, thanked the woman, and dashed back into the home, tripping over the threshold as he went. And that was where Salma found him, some distance from any of the house's lavatories, leaning up against an end table and gasping for breath.

"Are you lost, sir?" Her voice relayed nothing but unmitigated suspicion.

"No, _señora_ , I'm looking for _you_ ," he answered, hoping that it would be the correct answer.

-0-

No more than fifteen minutes later, the enterprising trio had found themselves on the opposite side of the front door. The family didn't take too kindly to pragmatists or those that overstepped their boundaries, so they would not be making a transaction today. In fact, they were disinvited from ever returning again.

"I think I might have discerned our next move," George was the first to speak once they were a safe distance away from the home. "I have seen the property certificate of the deceased girl, and a date which places her death around three months ago. Her mother was a woman named Samiha. She's our _dadivosa_ , for her very name means generous in the native language of some of the slaves."

"Bollocks to that. I was told right out that Mateo wasn't sent away on his own accord, but was fairly banished from his estate for poor behavior. Perhaps that's the clue we should be chasing," Brax asserted, starting to load their unsold cargo back into the hansom.

"One of the servants identified the two other slaves in the picture as Abraham and Sarah. Those are their Christian names, of course, but we ought to pay a visit to the field houses to locate them," William said, adamant that his course of action be taken.

George suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, turned, and seized Murdoch's shoulders. "Do you remember me speaking of Henry's lady friend earlier, sir?"

Of course he did, over the sensation of his pounding headache. He nodded, hoping he'd soon be released from the ungainly personal contact.

"I never did mention her name because it didn't strike me as important at the time, but this requires that we return to San Juan with all haste."

The young man was enjoying having people so hooked on his words, but Thomas was having none of it. "Bloody hell, come out with it!"

He released William suddenly. "I suppose I needn't ask if you remember the story of the biblical Rebecca?"

The lawman's features grew pale as realization struck him. Ignoring his prior inhibitions, he climbed into the carriage after the rest of his companions and bade the driver to rush.

 _(to be continued)_


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: This chapter was extremely difficult to write as I put all of the pieces together. I can't leave you waiting forever, though! We finally get to hear Julia's back story.

Next time: The confrontation to end all confrontations. The culprit is revealed. Any guesses as to who it might be?

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter Eight**

By the time the carriage had reached the main road, clouds were gathering thickly overhead. It was still fairly early in the afternoon, and even though they were traversing the countryside at a fairly elevated pace, the foursome did not pass a single soul on their journey back to the docks. Even the slaves had evacuated the fields, leaving endless stretches on either side of the path soulless. The sugar cane snapped and bowed with each gust of wind. To Thomas, this place no longer symbolized the orderly agrarianism and industrialism of the islands, but something entirely sinister. Someone within the plantation had murdered a child, and the picture was only growing clearer by the minute.

"Do you think that woman Samiha could have killed Luisa before running away?" George wondered aloud.

He wanted to tell him that his tone was needlessly low; what with the howling of the wind, the driver couldn't hear their exchange. But he was too taken in by that naive speculation that he had to speak his mind. "Her own daughter?"

"Mothers aren't known to commit such heinous acts unless under extreme emotional duress," William mumbled, eyebrows knit together as he ran through the pertinent details of the case in his mind.

The carriage lurched to the right, causing the window trappings to come undone. It seemed a little fruitless to secure it once again, as the men were already soaked to the skin, but George set to it. "These are extenuating circumstances. What kind of person would be able to look a child in the eye as they smothered the life out of them?"

"Or any person for that matter. Perhaps one of the gentlemen, or even Luisa's father, was so disgusted by a slave's honored presence in the household that he committed the deed in the dead of night. It would then make sense for Mateo to be our culprit, for his parents were just as eager to ship him off to the service than have people talking," Brax speculated. Perhaps it really was just a case of wealthy men of means abusing their nearly unlimited power.

"Please, I beg of you, do not plant such ideas in each other's heads without first considering the weight of your words," Murdoch snapped in a rare display of exasperation. "Why would he go to the trouble of making a map that would lead us to the child if there was no chance of absolution for his soul?"

Certainly the lawman was of the mind that there were some sins that were unforgivable. Thomas wondered just how many of his transgressions would have been enough to doom him to an eternity in purgatory; other than his odd attendance at the weekly reading from the good book, he hadn't put much thought into his fate in the afterlife.

After a few moments spent indulged in complete silence, the hansom came to a halt. William was out the door at once, arms held aloft over his head so as to dodge some of the downpour. Both ships bobbed and swayed in their moorings; as he reached the gunwale of the _Temperance_ , he was surprised to find the good Captain straddling her perch on the bowsprit. She was drenched to the skin, her blouse and canvas pants clinging to every curve. Now that he was familiar with her body, he found it difficult not to stare.

"William," she greeted him warmly, with an improper amount of familiarity. "I trust your meeting with the de la Vegas went well. We're just battening down the hatches and would be glad to assist your men in doing the same. It seems that we will be riding out the storm side by side."

He cleared his throat, several fingers on one hand teasing hers. "Julia, please, I'm here on official business."

His gaze was so imploring that she couldn't help but follow it towards the forecastle, where one of her women was deep in conversation with an Arcadian cabin boy. Since their run in at the market and their subsequent reintroduction, Rebecca and Henry had spent nary a moment apart. Even as the _Temperance_ sped up the coast to aide the landing party, she'd stayed behind. But now as George and Thomas joined the detective on the upper deck, arms crossed confrontationally, she looked for all the world as if she wanted to bolt.

Murdoch had been hoping for a subtle apprehension of his suspect, so as not to attract the attention of the other sailors, but the captain had other plans. "Samiha!" He barked, pushing Higgins aside.

Finally, when it appeared that she had nowhere else to hide, the former slave made a mad scramble for broadsides. George caught her about the waist and pulled backward rather savagely, nearly toppling over in the process. Intercepting the personal affront on his lady friend, Henry interjected, "Lads, what is the meaning of this? Let her go at once!"

"We can't," William said regretfully, "She's to be questioned in a murder investigation."

To no one's surprise, Rebecca continued to struggle, thrashing her arms and legs about and landing a rather punishing blow to her captor's midsection. "Don't you see? They're working for those Spanish bastards! You can't trust them, any of them-"

The lady's outburst garnered the attention of several of her companions, including a rather drenched Emily Grace. She reached for her belt, removed one of her daggers, and aimed with what was sure to be deadly accuracy. Fortunately, her superior officer caught her wrist on the backswing and forcefully lowered the hilt. "Leave them alone," Julia demanded, simultaneously understanding nothing and everything.

George's horrified distraction at his sweetheart's willingness to bring him harm was all the distraction that his detainee needed. With a wordless gasp, she broke free and ran to the mizzenmast, where she pressed her back against the wood and surveyed the people approaching her from every direction.

For one endless moment it seemed that she would surrender, but then Rebecca removed a rounded metal cylinder from her waistband. To William's absolute shock, it proved to be a slender six-shooter pistol. She didn't hesitate to press the muzzle against the underside of her chin.

"They took everything I've ever held dear," she lamented, "and if you're going to take me back to the fields, it's going to be in a casket."

Carefully measuring his steps with the ragged nature of her breathing, William advanced, hands held up to indicate gentle intent. He nearly had to shout to be heard over the downpour, which had hastened in intensity over the past few minutes. Nearly obscured by the thick down of tropical trees, a flash of light could be seen off in the distance, followed by a tremendous crash of thunder. "We're not here to collect a bounty, Samiha. As we speak, your daughter lies decomposing in the cargo hold of this very ship. You cannot retain impartiality any longer."

"Don't call me that name!" She shouted, hands shaking so severely that he feared she might accidentally engage the trigger. It seemed that her past pursued her wherever she went, no matter how far she ran from it. "I cannot...I do not wish to…"

"Mateo is dead, and so is Luisa. If you're looking for a sign to confess the truth, it might as well be now. That could allow us to find the true killer," George chimed in his with his ill-advised bit of counsel.

Her guise morphed into one of unmitigated rage; she lowered her weapon slowly, only to swing it over in the direction of the _Arcadia_. Several men, who had been watching the scene unfold from their stations just a few dozen feet away, ducked instinctively. "I know one of your men killed him, and when I find out who it was, they shall suffer on this side of eternity more than the next."

Over the shoulder of their negotiator, Henry made eye contact with his paramour. He didn't even have to say anything, for his stricken expression said it all.

Rebecca's mouth twisted in a series of grotesque visages, counted among their ranks that of anguish and the deepest sadness any of them had ever bore witness to. The gun tumbled from her grasp and William surged forward, sending it flying across the deck with a movement of his foot. Without so much as another word, he gathered her in his arms, and allowed her to weep openly in a manner that she had never allowed herself to do.

-0-

"I never expected him to pay me any mind," she explained from the folds of her patchwork quilt. "I was only a servant, and he was the heir to an innumerable fortune."

Across the room, Thomas sighed deeply and sunk into an armchair. It was one of half a dozen in the wardroom, where the assembled crowd had retired for their questioning of the suspect. Almost immediately, Rebecca had began to talk, relaying an accelerated interpretation of her life's story. Her family was stolen away from the Horn of Africa when she was just two years old, and at four she'd been snatched from her mother's breast and forced to labor in the household of Florencio de la Vega. Among her many duties was to serve as a companion and playmate for their young son, Mateo, with whom her friendship grew in leaps and bounds over the course of many years.

"They'd given us all Christian names, although I suspect they threw open the holy book and read from a list," Rebecca said with a small smile, sitting up in the chaise where she'd been laid up. Gradually, her shipmates had come to her aide, bringing blankets and a flask of hot tea. Each left without so much of a word, for they were just as shocked at her revelation as the men. Eventually, Henry joined their enclave, and over the span of the past hour, he'd moved his chair so close to that of Rebecca's that he was breaching all means of decorum. And all this time she'd paid him no mind, her eyes trained on the floor that continued to rock beneath them. "My mother was the washerwoman, and my father eventually joined the house as the handyman. It's really a wonder, and a true blessing, that they didn't separate us in trade or transaction."

After a minute spent in indulgent silence, William prompted her to continue. He had a bit of parchment propped up against his knees, quill pinched between his fingers, but really he hadn't been taking diction. That almost seemed... _disrespectful_.

"I sat in the drawing room and fanned the young master as he received lessons from his tutor," she recalled wistfully. "That is when I learned the English tongue. This was to my fortune, for I was better able to understand my friend."

"Am I to presume that you eventually became lovers?" Murdoch asked gently.

She nodded. "After a few years, it became evident that a female playmate wouldn't be proper company for a growing young man. But I remained in the home as an assistant to our cook. There, I could steal out to the field house to see my brothers in bondage, and counsel the young ones. You see, because I have no memory of my homeland, the adjustment has been easier for me. But there were the moments, the meaningful glances, the barest brushes of fingertips as I passed off the flatware-"

Rebecca trailed off, a line wearing its way into her forehead. "His parents knew, of course they did. Their worlds were so small that they couldn't help but notice their son sneaking around with a slave. Mark my words, sir, we were in love nevertheless. I was beaten more than once, but never caught. Eventually, I found myself with child."

"Was this Mateo's child?" George inquired somewhat rhetorically from his post nearest the door.

"Naturally," she confirmed. "After Salma and Florencio had made sense of the situation, they sent him away. But I believed he would come back. He'd promised, you see, and sworn with his every breath that he'd return to steal me away so that we could live together."

The lawman grimaced. Surely she knew that a woman of color and a white man couldn't make a life in public without suffering undue scrutiny. Perhaps Mateo had come to terms with this, and opted to sacrifice himself so that someone else's indiscretions could at last come to light.

"I gave birth under the watchful eye of my mother no more than seven years ago. It was a girl, one that I named in the ways of the Spaniards. At first my master was reluctant to allow her to live in the home, but they agreed that she didn't belong in the fields with the common property. My beatings increased in frequency, but I endured them knowing that my girl would be kept safe," she clarified, after a battle with the flood of her emotions.

At last, William revealed a folded bit of paper from his pocket. The drawing had nearly been rendered unrecognizable by the rain, but she took it in her hand anyway and examined the ruined charcoal lines. "We found this with her body. Is this of your doing?"

She set it aside but continued to gaze at it, intentionally dodging the question. "Mateo and I used to draw together as children, with such imagination that you couldn't believe. I would render images of our anticipated future, wherein I would be the mistress of a grand house. You see, I went to check on her in the middle of the night and found her lifeless in bed. Without my intervention, my child's body would have been burned in the trash heap. I'd just drawn it that day, to her immense joy. She'd seen a picture of her father before, but only in paintings. I fled immediately after burying her in the fields."

"So you're telling me that you didn't seek out the killer, but immediately left to join Captain Ogden's company? How are we to know that you didn't snap and do it yourself to free her of a lifetime of suffering?" Brax questioned obtrusively, taking a swig of rum from a bottle in the cabinet.

To her credit, Rebecca didn't so much as bat an eyelash at this accusation. "If you know as much about suffering as you let on, you'd know that the life of a person in human bondage is one without solace, sir. My very freedom was stolen from me before I was even old enough to value the feeling of the wind in my face or the dirt at my feet. These gifts I have in life are relatively few. To struggle against the upper hand, the one that has always oppressed and whipped me, would be without merit."

"Jul- _Captain Ogden_ has said that you've been in her company for ten weeks at the most. This checks out with the anticipated time of death, but does not absolve you of guilt," William confirmed, removing his spectacles and balancing them on his knee.

Her eyes grew wide in panic. "You must believe me, Mr. Murdoch. A woman doesn't just kill her kin, especially if that kin's one of the only reasons she's got to continue living. When I saw Mateo's body thrown overboard after the battle where we came to your rescue, I didn't want to be reminded of my past, but now I know I have no choice to face it. Please, understand why I have done what I've done. I am not happy, but I am absolved."

After a long moment, wherein he exchanged meaningful glances with his shipmates, William replied quietly, "We believe you."

Slowly, and entirely willingly, Rebecca surrendered herself to Henry's protective embrace.

-0-

Julia Ogden was a woman who had spent her entire life picking and choosing her battles.

She'd come of age inside a seaside estate in Weymouth in the company of her younger sister Ruby. Her father was a well respected doctor in town, and her mother spent countless hours tending the state of affairs within the home. They had no nanny, no housekeeper, and no one to ensure they were conducting themselves like proper young ladies. As a result, the sisters were often seen traversing the streets in bare feet and trousers, hair flowing freely and mouths open wide in laughter.

More often than not, they would find themselves at the medical practice of Lionel Ogden. He was a quiet sort of man, whose hands were gentle on his surgical instruments and even more docile in the discipline of his children. Unlike most doctors in town, he'd had a university education, and therefore dealt with cases far more complex than tooth extraction or limb removal. His crowning achievement was an exceedingly detailed atlas of the human body that he'd articulated in a parchment notebook until every page was filled with diagrams and statistics. Julia studied this book until the binding was falling apart and the pages were warped; every word that her father uttered was dissected with rapt attention, until by the age of fourteen she'd replaced the hired help in the surgical suite. It was she that insisted they bathe their used tools in hot water to sterilize them of whatever vile humors could spread by the blood. One evening when her father was out of town visiting a crucial benefactor, she'd even delivered a child via section of the abdomen. Miraculously, the mother survived the ordeal, and gone on to laud their practice to any and all that would listen. Although she knew that her dream of attending university was far from realistic, Julia had hoped that when she reached the eligible age that her father wouldn't marry her off to whatever man would accept her dowry.

At long last the feminine curse overcame her the summer she turned fifteen. Her mother had died of a sweating sickness the previous winter, leaving the home quite empty of her compassionate touch. Even their father had turned cold towards them, leaving the girls in the protective care of a governess and forbidding her to assist with any more operations. Ruby, only twelve at the time, ran to her side at the chamber pot and rubbed her shoulders sympathetically, for the two of them could follow this development to its natural conclusion. It was her little sister's assertion that her menstrual cycle had evaded her for several years, for she was so fierce that it dare not cross her path. But their help was only too willing to tattle on her, causing her father to begin making preparations of another kind.

A large sum of money was set aside under the pretense of being an advance on her inheritance, but Julia knew better. Soon, men much older than she were coming over for dinner and retiring to the parlor with her afterwards. Seeing as they had no sons in the family and a similar fate soon awaited her, Ruby bought her passage to the new world under a contract of indentured servitude. It was only after a wealthy suitor had been chosen for her and the date set that she found it within herself to act. One evening, as the wind and rain whipped the windows outside their drawn shutters, she pilfered her dowry from the safe and stole away to the main road. There, she joined the first caravan to come her way, assuming it would take her far away from her family life and impending marriage.

The country had been ravaged by war for quite some time, thus making life difficult for the young runaway. She eventually found employ as a serving lady in a tavern near the docks in Cardiff, wherein Julia developed a healthy respect for the sea and those that braved it. At night, she bedded with half a dozen young women of similar age, who'd fled their homes under similar or classified pretenses.

In the bunk above her was Iris Bajjali, a housekeeper who wore her exotic features with pride. She'd grown up a Christian in a predominantly Muslim area of northern Africa, and had been prosecuted because of it. Her parents and brother had perished in their passage across the sea, leaving her alone in a strange land without a dollar to her name.

Annie Cranston worked alongside her and was the youngest member of their enclave; her mother had been a flighty woman of the night who'd fallen victim to the pox and left the thirteen year old without anyone in the world. Julia saw a lot of her own sister in the bright-eyed child, and it wasn't long until she would have done anything to defend her.

When she was twenty, she was already worn from several years of hard labor. Her back was hunched from tending to tables, and her hands were cracked from washing pots. This was freedom, but not the kind she'd imagined. At her current rate of wage, it would take her nearly two years to save up for passage to the colonies. Unlike her sister, she'd be damned before she slaved under a master's scrutiny. Her decision was made.

In that time, it was common for men to gamble in the shaded corners of the tavern, far from the watchful eyes of constables who wandered in on beat. Julia had observed their games often enough to familiarize herself with the rules, and catch on to the wily tricks employed by the enterprising privateers visiting on shore leave. The sums of money that would pass through their hands in the space of an evening was astronomical. She only had to wait for the right opportunity.

One day, an overconfident businessman about town bought his entry into the game. After several rounds of gameplay, Mr. Garland had been cheated out of that month's earnings and then some. Panicked, he raised the stakes and bet his largest possession, one slender clipper ship measuring one hundred fifty feet from prow to stern. Without hesitation, Julia reached into her coin purse and bet the entire remaining sum of her dowry that she'd been saving for a moment such as this. They'd balked at the thought of a woman joining their game, but their tune was soon changed by the sight of a small fortune laid vulnerable on the table.

This was to their detriment, for the prize was soon hers. Strolling to the docks, she was surprised to meet the girls from her boarding house. They were dressed for travel, and wanted in for whatever she would be headed into.

Within the fortnight, Julia had a small but manageable crew of twenty women. This included Emily Grace, a deft handed knife thrower and notorious character known to entertain the romantic overtures of both men and women. Sharpshooter Margaret Barlow, nearly a decade older than she, was the last to join before they left port. Each had a story, but from then on she didn't ask, and they weren't willing to provide that information. Their pasts were personal histories, and would remain as such. It wasn't their business to speak of it when clearer horizons undoubtedly lay ahead.

William met her in the corridor at the base of the ladder, where she and several deckhands had sought shelter from the storm. "She had help burying the body. It was the servant girl, Noemí," he said without preamble.

She nodded, for she had expected as much. It was a wonder just how much things began to fall into place with just a little illumination.

Now realizing that her crew would be eavesdropping on their conversation wherever they went below decks, Julia took his hand and led him onto the deck. They were shortly followed by Captain Brackenreid and Mr. Crabtree, who nearly collided into them as they found refuge under the awning of the topsail.

After several minutes spent relaying their findings to her, Julia asked, "Just where is Rebecca now?"

"Relaxing in your ward room under the watch of Higgins," Thomas replied grimly, "and how long did you say that she'd been with your company?"

"Three months. She met us here in the dead of night the last time we were in port, and I didn't pry."

"Are you sure that was wise?" William had a touch of reproach in his voice.

This was a brave question coming from the man who only the evening before had drunkenly confessed his entire life story to her as they lay curled up in bed together. He knew not how she could use this information, but knew he trusted her as she did him. Somehow, this man who she'd only known for a few weeks had set her previous habits on end. "I never ask questions, William. Surely you can respect that."

He ducked his head as a bolt of lightning split a palm tree at the head of the beach. In the patchy light provided by the strikes and the moon struggling to illuminate behind the heavy cloud cover, he could see that the pier was nearly deserted. "We've got to return to the plantation as soon as possible and confront the murderer."

"And just who would that be?" She inquired, and his flustered expression indicated to her that he didn't quite know.

George was a little flustered at this news. "There won't be any carriages leaving town at this hour. You'll have to go by foot, or-"

"We'll lead the way," Julia asserted. "Rouse your men and prepare them for voyage."

Their two companions moved off without another word, attempting to lower themselves to the wharf with the bucking of the _Temperance_ 's hull. Murdoch lightly touched her arm and whispered, needlessly for no one could hear them over the din of the storm, "You don't have to do this."

"You're right, I don't," she answered, curling her fingers around his. "Now get moving, before I change my mind."

She relished the slightly alarmed look in his eyes as he scampered off to make the necessary preparations, blowing him a preemptive kiss as he went. As the last of the three men could be seen boarding the _Arcadia_ , Julia turned and descended into the hold.

 _(to be continued)_


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! Here's the next to last chapter of this story. Be forewarned that there are triggers for sexual assault, suicide, and the typical blood and guts that are present in the show. Also present: the de la Vegas' unfortunate racist comments. I will change the story's description to reflect this.

Next time: Wrapping things up. Several big changes come to the crews of the _Temperance_ and the _Arcadia_. And fear not, for there will be more explanation if you're left reeling by the end of the chapter. And on to Barbados at last? Yes, I think so!

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter Nine**

"How long?" William asked for the eighth time in the past hour, and Emily considered throttling him for the umpteenth time in just as long.

She wondered if he couldn't see the froth of the rip currents churning near the beach, or feel the tug of the waves pulling them farther from the shore. Maneuvering during a thunderstorm was difficult enough without a nosy detective checking on their progress every few moments. It was enough that two of them couldn't bear to let them alone, braving the ropes to swing over less than an hour into their journey. Really, mainlanders were _insufferable_.

"Long enough," Emily replied sardonically, expelling a wayward strand of hair from her mouth with a cough. Before joining her captain above decks, she'd had the foresight to don a rain slicker, but that did little to keep out the downpour, the kind that clung and soaked to the skin. Growing tired of the sickening squelching sounds beneath her feet every time she took a step, she'd kicked off her boots, standing at the wheel in bare soles. Normally the duty of navigating the ship was reserved for Rebecca, but she seemed to be otherwise occupied at the moment.

Although she had been taken aback at the news of her friend's deception, it had not come as a surprise to her. Each member of the crew held their secrets, and she surmised that if her bunkmates caught wind of her escapades back on the mainland there would be some degree of controversy too.

The lawman harrumphed and moved off, muttering, "Thank you, Miss Grace." He resumed his circuit of the abaft deck, only ceasing his pacing when Captain Ogden emerged from the berth with her trusty astrolabe.

Another man soon moved into the recently vacated position. George's hair was sticking up at odd angles, making his appear like a drowned rat. As he gazed at her in profile, his expression strained, Emily felt an unfamiliar twinge of guilt in her gut.

"Listen here-" she said, just as he blurted out: "I should-"

At last the two of them made eye contact, sizing each other up in a manner similar to when they had just met. Something had changed between them, and both wanted to get to the bottom of it at once.

"I apologize for nearly attacking you earlier," Emily announced a bit sheepishly, as if coming at men with knives was a typical behavior for her. And perhaps it was.

He cleared his throat. "Yes. _That_...that was some aim." George's eyes were not on her, but on the captain as she struggled to spot a guiding star with which they could discern their location.

"I've got to protect my own, but I suppose I could have done that more constructively. They say that old habits linger," she added, fighting to regain his attention.

From some distance away, both heard William's cry of triumph and saw him point out to the horizon. Emily banked the ship hard to the right and suddenly there they were, a single torchlight visible from the beach.

"They knew we were coming back," George marveled quietly, his lips set in a thin line.

"Land ahoy!" Julia shouted, and soon the _Arcadia_ came to rest broadsides. Deckhands were rushing about on both ships, hastily lowering the anchor and preparing the skiffs for deployment. She only had mere moments to make her point before the real ordeal would begin, and that was now painfully obvious for her.

Before she could give it a second thought, Emily seized both sides of his face, drew him in, and kissed the rather befuddled cabin boy senseless.

He stiffened before relaxing into her, wrapping his arms around her waist and returning the gesture. Emily was suddenly glad that he had a firm hold on her, because her knees felt as if they would give out. Really, all of this passion! Where on earth had he been hiding it?

They separated after a moment of bliss. She could hear her superior calling for her to man her station, but her blood was roaring in her ears, causing it to sound tinny and far away. "I enjoy your company, George Crabtree," she asserted, "And I promise you that it you come back to me I'll give you all the incentive you need to never leave again."

All at once he was smirking irreverently of the gravity of the situation, even though his eyes betrayed his anxiety. She didn't wait for him to echo her sentiment; that would have wasted too much time. "Take Cynthia. She never misses."

George started at the foreign sensation of the hilt of a knife being pressed into his ribs. He accepted it, noting the remarkable craftsmanship and signature inscription. But something didn't seem quite right. "You name your weapons?"

She frowned. "Of course. Don't you?"

One hundred feet off the _Temperance_ 's hull, Captain Brackenreid was shouting up from the boat of which he was the sole occupant. Margaret was peering down at him, waving her arms as she explained to him that she would be remaining behind to keep watch over the fleet. In the meantime, Julia and William were climbing aboard their own dispatch as half a dozen women struggled to keep the rigging steady. Rebecca and Henry appeared next; he was close to tears while her features were set in determination. At long last, George left her side, squeezing her hand one last time before joining the away crew.

Five people were more than too many to load into a skiff, especially when one pair of hands holding the pulleys steady was distracted. Just before they were to commence lowering the boat as gingerly as possible, the lone Arcadian called out, "Margaret Barlow, I swear that if we return alive I shall marry you!"

That was it. The sharpshooter, who had been standing at a crucial spot in the rigging, suddenly relaxed her grip on the rope in surprise. This caused several of her crewmates to stumble and release their holds, which resulted in the raft falling at rapid speed into the surf below.

Miraculously, William was the only one to be thrown into the waves. He was quickly pulled over the side, sputtering as he went, the sound of Margaret's well wishes distant around the salt water clogging his ears.

Henry and George began to paddle, one of them noting how this didn't bode well for the remainder of their mission. Swiftly, they were shushed.

It was agreed that if they didn't return to the beach within the hour that a rescue party would be sent to ascertain their whereabouts. Murdoch dearly hoped that it wouldn't have to come to that, but considering his list of suspects was empty and there was nary a person in the household without a motive, it might have come to pass.

Beside him, Julia shifted in her seat and seized hold of his thigh. He was fully prepared to scold her-surely this wasn't the time for romantic gestures-but then he saw a shadow stretching lengthwise across the sand. Their beacon turned out to be a lantern propped up against a rock on a craggy outcropping that bordered the edge of the cane fields. Several projections spread out from the mass, including one that he identified as an arm. A keen sense of dread clenching his stomach, he stood immediately and stepped out of the boat, wading through knee deep water to reach the body.

For one fleeting moment he hoped that whoever it was must have been sleeping, for no less than six blankets covered them. As he peeled them off and threw them aside one by one, William was astonished when his investigation revealed the prone form of a young girl, dressed rather tellingly in a blue and white striped jumper. A red bloom of blood had emerged from a bullet hole in the back of her head and formed a halo about her scalp, making for quite the eerie image indeed.

From some distance away, Rebecca let out a mournful wail at the sight of her slain friend, only to have Henry press his palm to her open mouth. By now, the rain was subsiding, replaced now by the low drone of the rollicking wind. Crabtree knelt, unsuccessfully trying to wake the girl by shaking her shoulder and hissing: "Noemí!"

"Dear lord," William muttered, and made the sign of the cross. Through the waterlogged material of her house dress, he could see the network of fresh scars formed from the cat o' nine tails. Rolling the slave over, he noted how bloated and swollen her face was, with bruises adorning both eyes and cheeks. "She's been beaten."

"Mark my words, this is Florencio's doing," Rebecca rasped, kneading her hands together. "This was his way of punishment. He'd come at you in more ways than one, sir, I can't describe how-"

"They must have gotten wind of the fact that she let me into the office," George acknowledged, eyes wide. "This is all my fault. They put her out here to draw us to the house…"

"Who?" Julia cried, taking her charge's arm and allowing her to lean in.

"That Spanish bastard, of course!" Thomas cried. "Distinction be damned!"

It was then the captain revealed the pistol that had been hidden inside his vest, set his sights on the top of the hill, and began to climb as if his life depended on it. As much as William wanted to conduct a quiet and relatively uncontested arrest, as was his way back in England, it was now apparent they were dealing with a dangerous and unstable criminal. He carried no weapon, but everyone else did. Against his better judgment, he let the girl lay where she'd fallen and followed his companions in arms up and over the dunes.

This time, they didn't wait for the help to come to the door. Henry took his shoulder to the jamb and the six of them tumbled into the sparsely lit foyer of the home. Before anyone could make a sound other than the ungainly huffs and coughs of a near fall, William pressed a finger to his lips, indicating his crew to follow him into the sitting room.

As they turned the corner, Julia caught a flash of something out of the corner of her eye, but chalked it up to the movement of her cloak. At some point their party split into two, the gentlemen continuing on their path and she and Rebecca branching off into the library. It was almost as if the atmosphere was electric, collecting in pockets of static and causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end. This wasn't abated by the ragged breathing of her shipmate, who had a friendly grip on her elbow. After stepping over the threshold, she turned towards the window to check on the progress of the storm, the other facing towards the interior of the room. And that was when her hold grew dangerously tight.

Florencio de la Vega was perched in an armchair, legs bent at the knees and upper body in repose. He was still dressed in his best finery even at the lateness of the hour, a velour suit with all the trimmings. In one hand, he held an ivory handled pistol pointed directly at them.

He laughed, oddly mirthful for his situation, and amended, "Do forgive me, ladies, for I thought you would were my wife checking in on me."

William came running immediately at the sound of his name. What he found as he joined the growing crowd was nothing short of extraordinary; Julia stood back, arms crossed at her chest, while Rebecca was mere feet away from the man who had enslaved her for so many years.

"So lovely to see you, Samiha. We thought you might not be able to stay away," he said, lowering his gun slightly to take a luxuriant drink from the tumbler of liquor on the side table.

"It's Rebecca," she corrected, chin wavering.

"As far as I'm concerned, you surrendered your right to your Christian name when you lead my son astray. You negro women think you can use your feminine wiles to distract our kind from the straight and narrow, but you will _never_ -"

Her hand flew out and swiped his crystal goblet from the table, to get the affluent man's attention more than anything else. "You are wrong. Mateo cherished me, and Luisa was a product of our love."

For the first time, Florencio seemed to notice that there were no more than five other people in the room, all but one toting a weapon of some kind. Sighing deeply, not having flinched at the sound of glass breaking, he replied, "I was no stranger to nicknames while you were in my service, Samiha. Do you remember what the other household slaves grew to call me?"

" _El propietario de las mareas_ ," Rebecca answered automatically. "And you convinced yourself and all those around you that you had the power to control other human lives."

"But I did, including yours. If you recall, you were sharing my bed from the time you became a woman to a year before you became with child."

"Not on my own accord," she protested, and suddenly William understood. If any female slave became pregnant, it couldn't be to the plantation's detriment, for a new labor force could have been born free of cost to the owner. And if they didn't, no one had to know, save for a jealous mistress or a lighter hearted son determined to right the wrongs.

How wayward efforts could stray, however purely intentioned.

"You're skirting the issue. Did you kill the girl Noemí, or before that Luisa de la Vega?" Thomas asked, clicking the safety off his weapon.

"How it pains me to hear you refer to that child with a surname she does not deserve," he lamented, rubbing his temples. That didn't last long, for the captain stepped forward, seized him by the lapels, and pulled upwards.

"You shall answer our questions, or you might not live long enough to regret it," he growled.

"Such empty threats from a man who understands neither where I come from nor my way of life. Did Samiha tell you that Mateo was planning on usurping my fortune so that he could have all of this for himself?" The patriarch challenged.

"Perhaps he found you undeserving," Julia suggested, coming to his side.

Henry shook his head, suddenly finding it within himself to speak. "Your son was so hell bent on the murderer being found that he threw himself into the line of fire to deliver a map to the only people he thought he might be able to trust." Then, closing his eyes and exhaling, he admitted, "I shot your son, and by God, if it means exposing you for the monster you are, I don't regret it."

"Pray tell, what sins am I being condemned for? If it is the murder of Samiha's child, I assure you I am innocent. If it is conducting my business in the way I see fit, then there are plenty of other men you should also be arresting in your self-righteous crusade to-"

At that moment, three things happened. That very same flash of black fabric returned, fleshing out in the form of Salma de la Vega in her mourning attire. She entered from behind the assembled crowd through the sitting room, pistol cocked at the ready, and took a single shot with an unpracticed hand.

Thomas, who had been leaning over the businessman, suddenly released his hold and grabbed at his side, where a fresh bloom of blood was pricking at his shirt. A second shot soon followed, hitting its mark and lodging in Florencio's chest.

William had seen plenty of dying and the dead in his work, but nothing could compare to the very moment life flees from a man's eyes. There is shock, then surprise, and then there is nothing. Without knowing exactly what she was doing, the newly widowed woman had pierced the man's heart and left lung. Death was instantaneous, just as his reaction to pull Julia behind him in a feeble attempt at providing protection.

This was foolish, for he had no weapon and she was rearing to rush to the other captain's side. George and Henry soon saw to it, helping him to his feet and allowing their superior to lean on them for support. Without preamble or concern for her own safety, Rebecca rushed forward and spat in Salma's face.

After daintily wiping at the spot of saliva with a gloved hand, Salma bothered to speak for the first time since her rather abrupt entrance. "You are wrong to accuse my husband. It is I that you seek."

"You killed Luisa?" William asked loudly, determined to distract her while he or someone else could formulate a plan. As things stood currently, he didn't see them making their escape any time soon.

He could have been mistaken, but the remnants of tears were fresh on Salma's cheeks. "I did, first by smothering, but the poor dear struggled. I strangled her then, and after an hour had passed I shot her to make sure she was dead."

"Why?" Rebecca was shaking now, emotion evident in her voice. When she issued her next command, it came out in an impassioned cry: "Tell me!"

"You may find it difficult to believe, my dear _dadivosa_ , but I did it for you," she said plaintively, eyes never leaving those of her former slave.

"How in God's name could you say that? She was my child, just as Mateo's was yours!"

"So we are now even," Salma affirmed, with such conviction that it made his blood run cold. "The day I first noticed your dalliances with my son is the very day I lost him. From then on, he would have none of the life chosen for him."

"He would have been happy," Julia groused. "More so than in your home without her."

"He was too young to know his place. In our place, love matters not, and certainly not with a race born to serve."

"I do not need to serve anyone!" The former slave exclaimed. She was now so close to her former mistress that they were stepping on each other's toes. "You and Florencio were miserable, which I saw for myself every single day. So much darkness...treachery...harm to one another...it is a wonder you could come together even for _this_!"

Shaking her head and clicking her tongue, Salma chastised, "You think I do not know how he forced himself on you and the other girls. I have always known, and pushed aside the jealous feelings inside of me. He had to bow to my whims, or I could easily expose him for his vices. Fortunately, this will not occur anymore."

All eyes trailed over to the slumped corpse of the former tycoon, who now had a trail of blood coming from his mouth. The only sound was Thomas's rough inhalations as he struggled to breathe around the pain in his abdomen.

"I am afraid you do not understand, _Señora_ ," William cut in, "with no man to hold your fortune in trust, you will lose all you own to the port authority. Women aren't allowed in this colony to keep property, no matter how justified they see their actions in attaining it. And now your husband and son are dead and your servants will no doubt flee after hearing of your actions. You will be known far and wide as the woman of society who used her position to kill two girls and then used forced ideals of happiness to try and justify it. I trust that you also murdered Noemí when you discovered her assisting us, if it is as you say and nothing goes on in the house that you don't know about. And what do you think will happen when someone stumbles across the body on the beach, notices the brand on her arm, and finds you in the home alone with another body with no reasonable explanation as to how this came to pass? What will you say to that?"

After one endless moment of silence wherein her eyes grew wide with realization, she hissed, "The world is not kind to women of my stature, _señor_. It is not fair, and it is not fortunate. But as to what I will say, I suppose I will give the devil your regards."

None present had time to act before Salma raised her weapon and deposited a bullet into her own skull.

Rebecca screamed; George appeared faint. It was then he noticed that the rain outside had picked up, drowning out the sound of the woman's body and the pistol hitting the floor. Their resident amateur physician rushed to the body and confirmed the expected, all the while Henry recited an oft-forgotten prayer reserved for such desperate situations.

Shortly thereafter, William crossed himself for the second time in the matter of half an hour. He reached for the hand of the dark skinned woman, who took it gratefully. And then he found himself saying: "It is all over. By heaven, it ends like this."

 _(to be continued, one last time)_


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: As we know, all good things must come to an end. I have no plans for a sequel at this time, but that might change. Next comes more short stories to add to the Common Life AU series, or a bit of character study. We shall see...

Thank you to everyone that commented, favorited, and liked. Three months ago this was nothing but a title and a concept. I am immensely glad to see that it has reached its full potential. I stretched myself in terms of plot, research, and detail. I can only hope you enjoy the ending, and loved joining me on this ridiculous, fun, rollicking ride of an AU. Until we meet again!

 **Master of Tides**

 **Chapter Ten**

It took nearly all night for the parade of lawmen from San Juan to stop.

Once the metaphorical dust had cleared-or rather, the blood had pooled-George left the home and bolted towards the city on a borrowed horse. He returned after nearly an hour, enough time for Julia to make quick work of her patient's wounds.

"Captain Ogden," Thomas had rasped as he was hoisted onto the empty table in the dining room. "Wait until the doctors get here, madam, I beg of you…"

At that moment Henry returned with a vat of scalding water, the household stock of laudanum, and a handful of kitchen tools. Although she appeared a little daunted at the task ahead, she didn't let it show. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir." Then, submerging her arms up to the elbow, quipped: "I _am_ a doctor."

In the library, William had covered the bodies of the wealthy couple with blankets. Rebecca had abandoned him, dashing out to the field houses to relay the good news to the slaves. Certainly, if they were to escape before the port authority arrived, there would be no inquiry into the matter. In addition, they couldn't be stopped from pilfering trinkets from the mansion to finance their passage to free colonies. But that had _just_ been a suggestion.

More than a few servants had come to him, expressing their gratitude as they saw fit. Those who didn't speak a word of English or Spanish simply bowed or embraced him, and he responded by pointing out what had to be the most expensive curios in the room. Sure, five people had died in the wake of the family's treachery, but at what cost the freedom of several hundred individuals formerly in bondage?

William wanted to believe that this was a small victory against the evils of pride and vice; in fact, that was how the impression was made to the port authority, who listened to his words intently and took dictation. All the while acolytes in white gloves took stock of the evidence in the room, including the shattered wine goblet and Salma's pistol. Their actual litany was conducted in Spanish, which endeared his situation to the local lawmen. His status as a British envoy, however, did not.

"I don't know if you are aware of this, but word arrived just in the past day of some legislation-"

"Made in a stroke of brilliance, that law-"

"Just recently signed, they rushed the news here, through wind and rain-"

"Gentlemen," Murdoch held up a hand, wondering just how much they'd missed in their fixation on this case. "What are you speaking of?"

It was explained that in Madrid their two respective countries had entered an agreement to preserve their own holdings in the Caribbean. Jamaica and the Cayman Islands had changed hands, and borders in the colonies had been solidified. But that didn't quite explain why this had to do with this case, in this _country_ , in this very _home_.

"You see, sir, your ship is violating the terms settled on in the treaty. English traders are forbidden to moor in our waters, and vice versa. All vessels flying either St. Andrew's or St. George's cross in the harbor have been asked to leave," one of them elaborated, making note of the position of the blood spatters positioned around the room.

He wanted to say that he had no stake in the _Arcadia_ 's business, that they were simply escorting him to Barbados, but that would have been a falsehood, and he held his tongue. One of the men struggling to lift Salma's body quipped, "Your country has also agreed to limit piracy in this region, so we must have you-"

"We are not pirates," William protested, his choice of pronouns not lost on him. "However, if it is our absence you desire, you will soon have it. We plan on leaving as soon as the dawn breaks."

Without a second thought or an explanation, he turned and exited the room. He soon met Julia, who wore an apron over her trousers. It was a little eerie to see her with blood staining her fingers, but the grin she was sporting was prodigious and her optimism in the face of adversity infectious.

"Brax lives to foul my mood another day," she said before he could ask. "I went ahead and removed the bullet; it simply couldn't wait. Rebecca's gone ahead with her mother. She doesn't speak much of our tongue, but she has a kind heart. She'll make do in the laundry, I'm sure."

 _Sarah_. He stopped in his tracks, remembering the frail older woman that had bestowed upon them their first substantial clue. In this dark time, she was sure to bring Rebecca comfort. His mind was suddenly made up. "I'm sure she'll be more than welcome, on your ship or ours." Then, bringing his lips within a few inches of her ear, he whispered: "Gather the others. We are departing _on the hour_."

-0-

It was to a substantial degree of fanfare that the remainder of the away team arrived on the beach. The lads of the _Arcadia_ put on a show of whistling for their captain, who was only walking with the assistance of their cabin boys, while the ladies waved and hooted for their own returned safely.

Arguably the most enthused was Miss Barlow, who had made it to their abandoned skiff, parasol in hand. The clouds had cleared steeply, leaving only remnants of mist. In the horizon, the sun was barely beginning to crest on the new day. William looked on as she fussed over her husband-to-be, touching his dressings and repeatedly asking-much to his chagrin-if he was alright.

"Bloody hell, woman! I've been through worse!" He protested, sitting down with some difficulty.

"Thomas, you've been _shot_!" She retorted, and the two set to their characteristic squabbling.

After some awkward side stepping of each other, Julia and William wound up sitting together in the second boat. George sat before them and began to row, energized as if he hadn't just ridden to town and back in a rainstorm. Perhaps seeing his beloved was added incentive, but he couldn't imagine _why_ , seeing as…

"Perhaps this is goodbye," Julia said quietly, not meeting his eyes.

William felt a pang of regret inside, knowing that he would most likely not see her again for some time. The two crews were formidable in their own respective rights, and were not commonly known to cross company. Because the two skiffs were broadsides, this was heard by their entire party.

The captain looked between his guest, his former opponent in business, and his deckhands. Each wore a forlorn expression, one that he couldn't abide for much longer. "Well, that's that. Once we're aboard, we'll set a course for the rising sun."

The two younger men smiled knowingly, but Murdoch was confused. "Sir, I thought your plan was to continue up the coast."

"Don't be daft. We've got to take you to Barbados. Besides-" he winced as Margaret seized hold of his arm- "my lovely wife would prefer to be wed Anglican."

-0-

A few hours later, as both ships sped eastward, there was a meeting of opposing forces in the captain's private quarters.

Thomas lay in his bunk, undressed to the shirtsleeves, surrounded by stacks of parchment. Regardless of his semi-official orders of bedrest from his interim doctor, the state of affairs never rested and he intended to take care of business during their three days travel under the backbone of the Lesser Antilles.

Across the room stood William, pacing back and forth between the wooden berths of the walls, quill pen still in hand. "This simply cannot be right," he mumbled, having pored over hundreds of pages of property deeds filched from Florencio's private office. "According to these, the deceased held in trust thousands of acres in the eastern half of the island, not just the lands their slaves personally cultivated."

Sighing, Brax helped himself to the mug of tea that perched precariously on his bedpost. "It's a simple concept, Murdoch. In order to fund their lavish lifestyles, wealthy planters lease out their land to newly immigrated farmers and demand a portion of the profit. Not too dissimilar to the system of serfdom you used to see back on the mainland."

"I understand that," he replied, for his father had been indentured into a similar agreement with a lord before his untimely demise. "But in the event that the proprietor of the plantation-that would be Señor de la Vega-passes away without an eligible heir, the entire operation ceases and the matter must be taken up by a provincial court in St. Augustine before eventually being sold to the highest bidder."

"Leaving an entire half of the isle vulnerable to foreign intervention," Thomas marveled, for he could follow that notion to its natural conclusion. "Seeing that Salma and Mateo are dead and the nearest relatives are most likely back in Spain, it might be at least a year before the beaches are once again properly secured."

William sat, exhaling slowly. Ever since they'd left their port of call, his impending report back to the crown was weighing heavily on his mind. What was he to say, that he'd meddled in the affairs of the enemy, infiltrated the home of one of their wealthiest men, but failed to ensure proper justice? That this situation would only recur over and over again with the vile institution of slavery, and they were powerless to stop it as long as the acquisition of wealth and power was held above morality?

"Perhaps the King would want to know," he wondered aloud, pouring himself another flask of tea.

The captain was taken aback that he would suggest such a thing, for he had known him during the past few months to play largely by the book. But then again, perhaps recent events had changed this. "Revenge doesn't become you, Murdoch."

"Yet you seek it all the time," William retorted, suddenly wondering where Higgins was and what he was up to.

Papers shuffling, Thomas struggled to sit up in bed and face the man he had grown to know as his friend. "Giles told me that you came of age in Aberdeen," he admitted, and held up a hand before he could protest. "I know how difficult life was for the Catholics in those days. I saw my own neighbors be driven out by the reformists; the head of the household was beaten before my eyes. I was lead to believe that it was justified, but as a young man I refused appointment in Cromwell's army. As a result, I was disowned by my father and expelled from my home."

The lawman listened to this and said nothing, his features softening a bit as his psyche was flooded with unpleasant memories of being tormented at school, or even worse, stalking and scheming to bring an end to the men who had destroyed his family and way of life.

"All of my life I've been fighting for what is fair, Murdoch, even though it might not always seem so," Brax continued. "What I hold dearly is the freedom of social and economic movement, the opportunity to provide for those around me. The land we are to be fighting for belongs to no one. Oftentimes we must rely on the powers that be to complete the moral judgments that we aren't qualified to make. I expect very little from the world which entitles me nothing, and that comes from experience. I take these jobs others may deem dishonorable because often it assists the down and out, something men of our kind certainly never received back home. Soon, I hope you will understand this."

After a moment of consideration, William answered, "I finally do, sir. And if I may say so, you are a fine man."

So sincere was this compliment that the captain had to pause and absorb it momentarily. Then, raising his glass for a toast, he said: "I did, after all, once say that you and I were very similar men."

A look passes between them, one of which the significance is not lost on the two.

-0-

"Hello, is anyone here?" William called out into the depths of the building which was to be his office, and coughed once the thickness of the dust in the air made its way to him.

In the past forty-eight hours, much had changed in his world. The case, which had absorbed so much of his time, had fallen away to reveal his true excitement for the start of his new life on the island. Here, he would be able to make judicial decisions as he saw fit, without intervention from the mainland government for the time being. As he turned this way and that on the first story of the grand building on the main drag of Bridgetown, he gradually visualized space for a chalkboard, and a receiving area, and a makeshift library, and so much more.

"Oh, what a lovely little room!" His lady friend exclaimed, stepping over the threshold after him. As she entered, Captain Odgen spread her arms wide and spun in a circle, laughing a little as she went. "I cannot imagine how wonderful it must feel for you to be back on dry land, this time permanently. I'll see to your things being brought to this address and arranged to your liking. I'm sure my crew would be more than willing to assist if the _Arcadia_ would prefer to be on their way."

He shook his head. Normally, this would be the case, but they had a wedding to attend. Within the space of an hour, their two good friends would be joined in holy matrimony by the crown vicar at the cathedral nearest the docks. In celebration of the occasion, Julia had chosen to dress up, swathing herself in a gown in the palest of pinks. Her blonde curls still flowed freely across her shoulders and down her back, however, creating quite the pretty picture as the light streaming in through the windows caught them. He had donned the one suit in his trunk that hadn't managed to be soiled with sand or rainwater, hat and key to his new station house in hand. There had been an excited buzz in the air between the two ships, and it was beginning to rub off on him.

"Stay with me," he said rather suddenly.

She huffed, amused by the vague nature of that statement. "Of course. We've got a little time until the ceremony, and you might need a little help clearing away the layer of dust on everything."

"No," William asserted, coming to hook an arm around her waist. "I want you to stay with me on Barbados and make a life with me in this city."

At her shocked expression, mouth agape, he knew that he had to speak fast before he scared his final opportunity away. "I know that you've always loved the sea, Julia, but think of it. There's a second floor where we could live, even separately if you so desire. I'm going to need a coroner with more medical expertise than I. You would be a respected partner, for few have your kind of experience. There's plenty of space for you, and for me, and for us to do business together and-"

"Yes," she interrupted, her expression jubilant.

He echoed her response, a little surprised at the outcome. It was if the room had been flooded with light, so luminous was her smile and the sparkle in her eyes.

"Oh, William, my answer is yes. Life is painfully short, as we are now aware. I have only recently known you, but it feels as if we've been in each other's company for ages. Oh, my God, how could I ever say no?" Julia embraced him then, and he returned it with such strength that he already knew he would not so soon as let her go.

-0-

George met his paramour promptly at the appointed location, under the shade of a great palm tree not far from where the _Temperance_ and the _Arcadia_ were moored. Emily stood facing away from him at first, her feet bare and knife belt graciously hidden behind tiers of a marvelous violet gown. As she turned, he barely had enough time to mutter a greeting before she seized him by the lapels and kissed him gently. This was unlike any of their other encounters, for the enthusiasm was lackluster, indicative of what was to come.

"I suppose this will be farewell," he stated regretfully, knowing that soon after the wedding of his superior officer the two ships would be on their separate ways. The announcement of Sir Murdoch had been enough to jog his memory of their impending separation; the immensely dignified gentlemen had practically come skipping back to the ship with the news that Captain Ogden would be staying with him in town to start her own medical practice. This had sent the crew of the _Temperance_ into a frenzy, for they had depended on Julia for nearly a decade to keep order. Once the shock had settled and debates had been hashed out as to who would be a proper leader for their brigade, one potential successor had stood out: Miss Emily Grace.

She was painfully young, but demonstrated the most initiative and had received a glowing recommendation from the outgoing commanding officer herself. After a democratic vote, she'd been chosen, and the metaphorical reins had been passed on to her. At first she'd been ecstatic, embracing him and going on about her future plans for their operation, but then reality had set in. They'd arranged to meet within the hour.

"I suppose so," she acquiesced, "We'll return to our old ways, patrolling the rim of the islands…"

"Looking for trouble as always," George quipped, helping her sit down.

"...And you will be continuing your journey to the colonies. And what of when you finally reach the Chesapeake?" She removed her hat and used it to fan herself; they were now marginally farther south, and the fact that it was still the middle of the summer was swelteringly apparent.

Normally he would be confident in his response, but Crabtree had to admit: "I don't know, Emily. This is my sixth time on such a route. We cannot return to trade with the Spanish, and our repertoire isn't exactly strong with our fellow kind that fly the cross."

The tide was coming in, making the wharf out in the distance appear as if it was an oddly shaped island bounded by the varying hulls of ships. A few clouds drifted by, but otherwise the sky melted indiscernibly into the water. It was a beautiful day, but what lay within was inexplicably stormy.

She whistled, long and low. "Perhaps this may be an overstepping of my boundaries…"

"Since when have you cared for that?" He inquired, and was rewarded with her smile.

"What I mean to say is that, if you want to see a different part of the world, I'm sure we can find room for you in my quarters," she said, as innocently as one could possibly make such a proposition. "Oh, but I don't know. We might travel to the orient, or to the Portuguese colonies in the south, or-"

"Emily," George interrupted, reaching out to cup her cheek with his hand. She stopped speaking and turned her eyes to him, lashes fluttering demurely. "Are you asking what I think you are?"

Because she was not a particularly patient woman, and time was most certainly of the essence, she asked, "If I was, would you be willing to accept and consult your captain about making the switch?"

He sat back, appearing to be in deep thought. Something came over Emily in that moment, something that she was definitely not used to confronting without brushing it aside: anxiety. Reaching for his hand, she appealed, "I'm telling you, we're more like your own crew than you'll ever know. You won't be out of place as a man; you'll have your own post and title within our ranks. Besides that, I care for you, George Crabtree, I really do. If only I could explain it in a way that would make sense to myself and to you."

All the while, he dodged her imploring gaze, looking out onto the horizon. The pair descended into silence while the cabin boy considered the offer. And just before she was about to surrender her hopes of convincing him and return to her ship alone, he clarified: "Emily, when I first met you, I was _terrified_. You were like no other woman I'd ever met; you represented something uncontrollable, unexplainable. It made me uneasy before I understood at last that what I was seeing was a woman so brimming with laughter, and life, and stories of her misadventures."

She wanted to ask him what exactly he meant by all of this, for after the events of the past week, she wasn't sure she could handle another minor crisis. But he wasn't finished.

"I've spent my years searching for the one thing that could leave my fulfilled. I couldn't find it at home amongst the warring factions, and now I know I might never find it in the sea. But now I realize that my destiny, the reason why I set out from County Cork, is to find you and set out on our own journey. So when you ask me if I'm willing to join your crew and sail around the world for no other reason but for that purpose, I must say, of course, I would dream of no other reality than to stand at the wheel alongside you."

When his account was complete, both were close to tears. Emily could find no suitable response but to draw him closer and kiss him, carefully and slowly, as if she was anticipating a thousand more times where she would do just that.

-0-

William and Julia arrived at the parish at the top of the hill in due time. Arm in arm, they entered the building and were immediately amazed at the amount of wind and light that swept in through the open windows and between the pews. All seats were taken by sailors putting forth their due diligence to dress for the occasion, and the aisles were littered with their feet or bodies squeezed lengthwise into every available space. Truth be told, Murdoch didn't consider just how large their crews numbered until they were together, waiting for the bride and groom to make their appearance.

He soon found Captain Brackenreid at the back of the building. The typically curmudgeonly officer was in high spirits for someone that still had to walk with the use of a cane; his formal breeches and stockings were pristine, if not stiff for lack of wear. George was babbling excitedly to him, and he was nodding around the circle of his cigar.

"What's this, then?" William asked, and Henry immediately came to his aid.

"George is off to join the crew of the _Temperance_ , and Brax has just consented to it. Could you imagine, our own Runt among the ranks of the ladies? What if they ask you to apply rouge or wear a skirt, huh? What will you do then?"

The man in question only rolled his eyes and set to straightening his superior's cotton cravat. William cut the deckhand off with a wave of the hand, for he had an offer that he ought to consider with his full attention. "Henry, it occurs to me that there is a message that must be delivered to the crown at once. A ship leaves for London at dawn. I shall be willing to loan you a change of clothes and some pocket money. Would you be willing to commit to such an excursion?"

There was the titter of excited voices from around the corner; he could surmise that the bride had finally arrived. But Higgins wasn't paying attention to that. "Well, sir, why me?"

"It's very simple, Henry. I trust you."

In spite of all that had happened. The young man's lips split in a broad smile and he nodded his consent. Julia came around the corner, announcing that their preparations were complete and their party could enter the main sanctuary.

The four of them fumbled into a makeshift line of sorts, Thomas in the front and William bringing up the rear. After a moment of silence, George asked, for the topic of marriage was only recently on his mind: "Sir, are you ready?"

"As I'll ever be," he replied confidently, extinguished his cigar, and strode into view of the congregation without another word.

-0-

Later that night, as the moon was only beginning to appear on the horizon, a man and a woman met on the pier between their respective ships. Much of the crew had descended upon Bridgetown with the intent on celebrating the union of the happy couple in one of the many taverns that dotted the streets; the two of them, however, were otherwise occupied.

Rebecca inquired as to how he anticipated the bride to adjust to life aboard the _Arcadia_ , and he answered, "Margaret can drink and shoot with the best of us. She'll be fine."

She had to chuckle at that, and then silence fell between the two. In his hand, he carried a small valise filled with everything he owned in the world. The significance was not lost on her.

"How's your mother?" Henry asked, relishing the background noise that the skeleton crew issued as they bent to their duties.

"Just fine, but I didn't ask to meet so that we could discuss her," she confessed. "I wanted to thank you, Henry. For everything."

He nodded, ignoring the sting of tears in his eyes. It was only after some thought that he'd realized that he'd grown disillusioned with why he'd initially joined the crew. He'd joined for wholesome adventure and camaraderie; instead, he shot a man, seen several dead bodies, and found himself involved in matters of life and death far beyond the scope of his current emotional capacity. Still, the pain of leaving his brothers in arms was undeniable. "You are welcome, Rebecca. I plan on returning home and inquiring into the business of the lawmen. Perhaps I'll be an assistant of sorts to someone like Sir Murdoch." _Then maybe I won't be daunted by the prospects of the job if I'm immersed in it slowly_ , he added to himself. "And then I intend to write to you."

Taking his hand, she said, "We usually winter in the Bahamas. Your letters will reach me there."

Once it was obvious there was no more left to say, Henry drew her to his chest and held her there for one long minute. All of the tension in her body suddenly left and she sunk into the circle of his arms, breathing evenly.

When they separated, Rebecca lightly kissed his cheek and stepped aside. He continued onto the main walkway, until he was so far away that she knew it was her last chance. Cupping her hands to her lips, she called out, "May God bless you, Henry Higgins!"

His response came in due time; the former slave took a moment to relish the sound of his voice on the wind, the same winds that would now carry her to freedom. With one last smile and a wave, Rebecca turned and ascended the ladder up to the main deck.

-0-

Two days passed and neither ship had left their moorings, but that was about to change. As William looked on, Julia said her goodbyes to the few remaining crewmen that had come for a final delivery of tools and supplies. The night before, he'd given his final words to the crew of the _Arcadia_. After he was finished and they'd sent him off with cheers and claps of the hand, it became apparent just how much, even through all of the torment he'd endured at the beginning of their voyage, they respected him. And it was almost enough to make him stay. _Almost_.

If only it weren't for the promise of a certain beguiling young lady waiting for him among the brightly colored buildings of the town. He was surprised at the sheer number of medical texts Julia owned, for they rivaled his own collection and threatened to push him out of their limited shelf space. Sometime after the first day, she'd taken to calling him _detective_ , and he'd began to call her _doctor_ , preferring to save their names for when they were finally graciously and gloriously alone. They were true business partners, and shared in the burdens forthwith together.

In the time she'd been bidding farewell to her shipmates, a messenger came with troubling news from up the street. A man had been found dead in an alleyway, and overindulgence was suspected. Normally this would have been handled by the port authority, but this was now unnecessary, for the island finally had its own lawman and coroner. The notion of their first case so soon after arriving was a little daunting to William, but he was sure that he and Julia could conquer any problem that came their way.

"Did you hear of George Crabtree's declaration to Captain Grace?" She inquired after everyone had left, setting to arranging her desk adjacent to his. "Such eloquence and passion for a cabin boy!"

"That's odd. You might have said the same for me and my occupation just a few weeks ago," he countered, his tone tinged with innuendo.

With a wink, Julia disappeared below the counter to gather her personal affects. "Did I hear that man say that we have a case already?"

"You don't mean that you want to attend to it now?" William objected, for she was halfway to the door and he was still in stockinged feet and shirtsleeves.

"Why, of course I do," she declared. "And you, detective?"

Murdoch reached for the top shelf to retrieve a bit of parchment, but something gave him pause. The sunlight from the open window temporarily blinded him, obscuring his view of the outside and bathing him in luxurious warmth. For a fleeting moment he was back on the bow of the _Arcadia_ speeding across the ocean, sneaking in an instance of peace with God's creations before it all came crashing down.

He hoped that George and Emily found their happiness together as he had with Julia. He hoped that Henry reached England safe and was able to deliver his message before departing on his own journey of self discovery. He hoped that Rebecca would find happiness in each passing day and the growing distance between her and the past. And above all, he hoped to find closure within himself.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he resolved, and went to join her.

 **The End**


End file.
